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MISS  JEWETT'S  NEW  BOOK. 


The  King  of  Folly  Island,  and  Other 

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THE    HEART 


OF 


MERRIE  ENGLAND. 


BY  THE 

REV.  JAMES  S.  STONE,  D.  D. 


"This   dear  English  land! 

This  happy   England,  loud  with  brooks   and  birds, 
Shining  with  harvests,  cool  with  dewy  trees 
And   bloomed   from   hill   to   dell  1" 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PORTER   &   COATES. 


Copyright,  1887, 
BY  PORTER  &  COATES. 


Jo  fii 


WHOSE  COMPANIONSHIP  OF  SYMPATHY  AND  AFFECTION 
HAS  MADE  LIFE  MORE  THAN  HAPPY. 


PREFACE. 


IN  the  following  pages  are  brought  together  sketches 
and  reminiscences  of  the  old  land  which  can  scarcely 
fail  to  interest  those  who  love  its  history,  its  antiquities 
and  its  rural  life. 

The  book  is  intended  rather  as  a  suggestion  of  than 
as  a  guide  to  England.  The  writer  has  sought  to  foster 
tender  memories  and  to  strengthen  loving  ties.  He  has 
wandered  from  places  well  known  to  neighborhoods  re- 
mote and  secluded — from  the  cathedral  of  Canterbury  to 
the  cromlechs  of  Chipping  Norton.  The  villages  de- 
scribed are  not  richer  in  interest  than  other  villages  :  they 
only  illustrate  how  much  pleasure  the  stranger  from  afar 
may  find  in  the  country  districts  of  England. 

The  book  will  serve,  if  for  no  other  purpose,  to  while 
away  an  idle  hour.  Nevertheless,  it  has  a  value  beyond 
that  of  amusement.  Every  line  is  written  in  truth — no.t 
merely  intentional,  but  actual,  truth.  The  places  spoken 
of  are  familiar  to  the  author.  The  greatest  care  has  been 
taken  to  attain  accuracy,  and  every  temptation  to  exag- 
gerate in  any  sense  has  been  studiously  avoided.  It  is 


4  PREFACE. 

well  to  state  this,  as  the  ground  gone  over  in  this  vol- 
ume is  almost  entirely  new.  With  the  exception  of 
London,  Oxford,  Stratford  and  Canterbury,  no  other 
writer  has  dealt  with  the  subject-matter  of  the  book — 
most  certainly,  not  in  the  way  the  reader  will  find  it 
dealt  with  here. 

A  few  historical  items  in  the  second  and  third  chap- 
ters were  gathered  from  a  parish  magazine  published 
some  years  since  at  Shipston.  The  fourth  chapter,  it  is 
hoped,  will  be  acceptable  from  the  world-wide  interest  in 
the  subject,  and  the  fourteenth  illustrates  the  customs 
and  the  superstitions  which  are  not  yet  extinct  in  the  re- 
gions touched  upon  in  the  volume.  They  who  are  fa- 
miliar with  English  folk-lore  and  country-life  will  detect 
in  almost  every  sentence  of  the  "  Merry  Legend  "  some 
allusion  to  old-time  manners  and  ideas.  The  outline  of 
the  story  is  true,  the  life  suggested  by  it  such  as  still  ex- 
ists ;  and  if  the  workmanship  of  the  writer  please  not, 
let  its  purpose  be  considered — its  endeavor  to  weave 
into  the  ground-work  sayings  and  practices,  homely  pic- 
tures and  rude  scenes,  which  shall  illustrate  the  days  of 
yore  and  the  country  far  away.  In  no  part  of  the  book 
is  a  character  given  that  is  not  sketched  from  life — 
sometimes  so  faintly  disguised  that  not  a  few  into  whose 
hands  this  volume  may  come  will  easily  recognize  the 
author's  model  and  purpose. 

A  residence  of  fourteen  years  on  the  western  side  of 


PREFACE  5 

the  Atlantic  and  a  readiness  to  appreciate  and  enter  into 
the  American  life  have  in  a  measure,  no  doubt,  unfitted 
the  writer  to  speak  of  England  from  a  purely  English 
standpoint.  He  has  done  his  best  to  show  that  love  for 
his  native  land  which  none  know  better  how  to  honor 
than  the  American  people.  They  know  full  well  that  he 
who  readily  casts  off  old  ties  will  as  readily  sever  him- 
self from  the  new.  But  without  becoming  more  and 
more  imbued  with  its  spirit  no  one  can  live  in  a  land 
which  one  has  learned  to  love.  It  must  give  its  influence 
to  his  thought.  He  is  as  the  man  who  in  the  home  of 
his  bride  looks  back  to  the  home  of  his  mother :  perfect 
loyalty  to  both  is  consonant  with  perfect  love  for  both. 
But  he  is  not,  and  cannot  be,  the  same  in  the  one  as  in 
the  other.  He  has  left  the  mother  for  ever,  not  with 
regret — far  from  that — but  to  fulfil  the  destiny  and  the 
duty  ordained  for  him  by  God.  They,  therefore,  in  the 
old  land  who  may  chance  to  read  these  pages  must  not 
expect  too  much.  The  son  going  home  is  not  as  the  son 
who  has  never  left  home. 

Perhaps  than  at  this  time  the  two  nations  were  never 
closer  knit  together.  Old  fqelings  have  died  out,  and 
both  peoples  are  content  to  let  bygones  be  bygones. 
May  they  learn  to  love  each  other  more  and  more  as 
the  ages  roll  on  1 

PHILADELPHIA,  June  21,  1887. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTORY 9 


CHAPTER  II. 
THE  VILLAGE  ON  THE  STOUR 25 

CHAPTER  III. 
THE  REGION  ROUNDABOUT 52 

CHAPTER  IV. 
LOVE  IN  YE  OLDEN  TIME 82 

CHAPTER  V. 
AT  OXFORD 113 

CHAPTER  VI. 
AN  EVENING  WALK 1 27 

CHAPTER  VII. 
A  TOWN  IN  THE  CHILTERNS 154 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

THAME 178 

7 


8  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

PAGE 

THE  PILGRIMAGE  TO  CANTERBURY 216 

CHAPTER  X. 
IN  THE  CATHEDRAL 237 

CHAPTER  XI. 
AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON 255 

CHAPTER  XII. 
To  EDGEHILL 281 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
OVER  THE  COUNTRY 301 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
A  MERRY  LEGEND 329 

CHAPTER  XV. 
LAST  GLIMPSES 382 


THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 


CHAPTER    I. 

Entrotructorg. 

"  This  little  world, 
This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea!" 

THERE  are  two  countries  which  we  as  Christians  and 
men  of  Anglo-Saxon  race  must  ever  think  of  with  affec- 
tion— viz.,  Palestine,  the  birthplace  of  our  Christianity, 
and  England,  the  cradle  of  our  civilization  and  our 
Church.  Both  of  these  lands  have,  apart  from  these 
considerations,  had  an  important  share  in  the  world's 
history ;  both  lie  on  the  western  border  of  their  respec- 
tive continents,  and  both  are  small  in  extent  and  irregu- 
lar in  physical  formation ;  furthermore,  both  were  peo- 
pled by  a  race  foreign  to  the  soil :  the  Israelites  came 
from  beyond  the  Euphrates,  and  the  English  from  be- 
yond the  German  Ocean.  These  races,  though  belong- 
ing to  distinct  families,  had  in  common  a  religious  spirit, 
a  love  of  freedom,  commercial  rather  than  warlike  in- 
stincts, an  undying  affection  for  home  and  an  exalted 
ideal  of  womanhood.  We  admire  alike  the  heroes  of 
both  peoples — men  such  as  Barak  and  Gideon,  who 


IO      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

fought  and  won  on  the  plain  of  Esdraelon ;  men  such 
as  Harold  Godwin,  who  fought  and  lost  on  the  field  of 
Senlac.  Both  have  had  their  kings  and  prophets  and 
poets  of  great  excellence,  and  with  equal  pleasure  the 
mind  recalls  the  names  of  David  the  shepherd-king 
and  Alfred  the  fugitive  prince;  Moses  the  lawgiver 
and  Anselm  the  saint;  the  rapturous  Isaiah  and  the 
holy  Herbert.  Nor  do  we  remember  save  with  the  same 
delight  the  snow-crowned  Lebanon,  and  the  steep,  rug- 
ged Cumbrians ;  the  blue  waters  of  Tiberias,  and  the 
quiet  beauty  of  Windermere;  the  Jordan  rushing 
through  a  ravine  deserted,  and  the  Thames  meander- 
ing through  vales  and  plains  of  rich  fertility ;  the  city 
crowned  with  the  cross  of  a  grand  cathedral,  and  the 
city  crowned  with  the  pinnacles  of  a  glorious  temple ; 
the  shore  washed  with  the  murmuring  waves  of  a  sunny 
Mediterranean,  and  the  coast  where  wildly  break  the  bil- 
lows of  an  untamed  Atlantic.  Some  associations  would 
urge  us  to  compare  England  and  Greece,  and  others, 
again,  England  and  Italy ;  but  the  most  precious  inherit- 
ance of  religion,  which  made  both  Canaan  and  Britain 
holy,  God-fearing  lands,  suggests  the  linking  together  of 
the  land  of  roses  and  the  land  which  floweth  with  milk 
and  honey. 

England  in  the  olden  time — say  about  the  age  in 
which  Augustine  and  his  monks  sang  the  Alleluia  of 
the  gospel  and  uplifted  the  cross  of  Christ  before  the 
gates  of  a  heathen  Canterbury — was  a  very  different 
country  from  the  England  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
Thirteen  hundred  years  have  wrought  changes  vast  and 
almost  inconceivable.  Then  the  British  Isles  lay  on,  if 
not  outside,  the  confines  of  civilization.  Beyond  them 


INTR OD  UCTOR  Y.  1 1 

was  nothing  but  the  unexplored  Atlantic — the  ocean 
which  skirted  the  empty  and  illimitable  space.  A  bold 
voyager  was  he  who  had  seen  the  western  coast  of  Ire- 
land— a  still  bolder  one  who  had  tempted  the  gods  by 
venturing  into  the  waters  beyond  the  horizon  and  had 
ridden  in  his  frail  craft  upon  the  green-crested  billows 
of  the  blue-black  sea.  No  keel  then  ploughed  the  Mer- 
sey; rarely  indeed  did  a  vessel  enter  the  Tyne,  the 
H  umber  or  the  Thames.  The  country  still  lay  in  its 
primitive  wildness.  Dark  and  impenetrable  forests 
spread  over  vast  tracts  of  land ;  deep  fens  and  sluggish 
marshes  covered  miles  of  plain.  The  climate  was  wet, 
dreary  and  inhospitable.  The  sparse  population,  whether 
British  or  English,  was  fierce  and  cruel.  Communication 
was  difficult  and  mostly  by  water,  while  the  few  towns 
and  villages  which  existed  were  rude  and  rough.  To 
compare  England  then  and  now  is  something  like  com- 
paring a  storm-wrought  sky  in  March  with  the  star- 
strewn  heavens  of  July.  The  wilderness  has  been  con- 
verted into  a  garden ;  cities  have  arisen  where  once  the 
wild  boar  had  his  lair  and  the  bittern  her  nest ;  the  best 
roads  in  the  world  overspread  the  island ;  mansions  nes- 
tle in  picturesque  beauty  where  once  mud  cottages  shel- 
tered rugged  chieftains  from  the  inclement  weather; 
woods  have  been  cleared  and  fens  drained ;  the  end  of 
the  earth  has  become  the  heart  of  the  world;  and  on 
every  sea  and  in  every  breeze,  from  castle-tower,  fortress, 
mast  and  spire,  there  waves  the  bright  red  cross  of  good 
Saint  George.  The  change  is  vast  in  every  way.  Not 
only  is  the  physical  aspect  of  the  country  different,  but 
the  political,  social,  numerical  and  religious  conditions 
of  the  people  are  also  different.  Instead  of  a  score — or 


12       THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

it  may  have  been  a  hundred — petty  tribes  warring  one 
against  another,  we  see  a  strong  united  kingdom,  the 
centre  of  an  empire  and  the  mother  of  nations.  Instead 
of  wending  our  way  slowly  and  tediously  up  forest- 
shaded  rivers  or  cutting  a  path  through  a  trackless  wild, 
we  can  walk  along  pleasant  highways  or  travel  in  swift 
haste  over  the  iron  road.  The  reeking  torch  or  the 
flickering  candle  which  served  to  guide  our  forefathers  to 
their  bed  of  straw  or  of  rushes  has  given  place  to  brilliant 
illuminations.  Even  the  lightning,  which  in  its  furious 
might  split  the  gnarled  oak,  rent  the  black  clouds  and 
struck  brave  Viking  hearts  with  fear,  has  been  taught  to 
turn  our  night  into  day  and  bear  our  tidings  round  the 
world.  The  whole  earth  has  changed,  but  no  part  more 
than  England ;  and,  while  Palestine  has  become  a  deso- 
lation and  Jerusalem  a  heap  of  stones,  that  other  holy 
land  has  become  a  paradise  and  her  cities  habitations 
of  beauty. 

The  land,  small  in  territory,  is  confessedly  great  in 
deeds.  Her  race  seems  to  retain  the  vitality  and  vigor 
of  perennial  youth.  It  was  young  when  Greek  ships 
sailed  the  midland  waters  and  Roman  hands  built  the 
Colosseum  and  made  captives  lay  the  roads  which  should 
lead  from  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  the  Imperial  City ;  it 
was  young  a  thousand  years  ago,  when  Charlemagne 
reunited  the  divided  empire  and  Egbert  made  the  Saxon 
principalities  one  kingdom ;  it  was  young  when  the  Nor- 
man duke  fought  on  the  seaside  battlefield  and  was 
crowned  with  the  crown  of  the  island-realm  in  the  min- 
ster in  the  marsh;  it  was  young  when  in  its  sturdy 
strength'  and  growing  ambition  it  wrested  from  John  the 
Magna  Carta  of  freedom  and  strove  with  kings  till  its 


INTR  OD  UCTOR  Y.  1 3 

voice  was  allowed  and  its  rights  were  secured ;  it  was  still 
young  three  hundred  years  ago,  when  the  Reformation 
gave  it  the  liberty  of  the  gospel  of  Christ  and  it  began 
its  work  of  subduing  the  untrodden  wilds  of  lands  be- 
yond the  seas ;  and  so  through  the  struggles  of  the 
Commonwealth,  the  wars  in  which  a  Maryborough,  a 
Nelson  and  a  Wellington  won  renown  for  themselves 
and  glory  for  their  land,  and  the  political  changes  of  the 
present  century,  its  youth  seems  to  be  like  that  of  the 
sun,  renewed  every  morning,  or  like  that  of  the  giant 
oaks,  slow  in  growth  and  continually  reproducing  them- 
selves in  the  seeds  planted  in  the  soil  fertilized  by  their 
cast-off  leaves.  A  thousand  and  half  a  thousand  years 
ago  the  ships  of  that  race  went  forth  to  conquer  and  to 
colonize  from  the  rivers  and  harbors  of  the  wild  North- 
ern sea ;  a  thousand  and  half  a  thousand  years  later  the 
ships  of  that  race  spread  their  sails  before  every  breeze 
that  stirs  earth's  waters  and  bear  from  land  to  land  and 
from  shore  to  shore  the  riches  of  earth's  treasures.  When 
the  morning  sun  begins  to  cast  its  roseate  beams  on  sky 
and  sea,  the  banner  of  England  is  unfurled  in  the  glory- 
stream  and  its  blood-red  tints  fall  on  gentle  wavelet  and 
long-sweeping  billow ;  and  when  it  sinks  to  rest  within 
the  Occidental  clouds,  it  leaves  peace  with  the  many  mul- 
titudes who  speak  the  tongue  of  Alfred  and  of  Spenser 
and  name  the  name  of  Him  whom  Canaan  rejected,  but 
whom  Britain  loves.  And  to-day,  while  the  ocean  owns 
her  as  its  mistress  and  one-seventh  of  the  solid  earth  calls 
her  queen,  her  men  of  high  degree  and  her  men  of  low 
degree,  her  lords  who  sit  in  purple  and  ermine  in  royal 
halls  and  her  laborers  who  till  the  soil  and  wear  rough 
clothing,  they  who  abide  within  the  old  land  itself  and 


14      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

they  who  dwell  in  distant  parts, — all  with  one  heart  be- 
lieve and  with  one  voice  proclaim  that  the  glory  of  the 
past  shall  shine  through  the  ages  of  the  future,  and  that 
the  cross  of  three  ancient  kingdoms  shall  be  for  ever 
the  symbol  and  the  proof  of  freedom,  of  righteousness 
and  of  law. 

Where  is  the  Heart  of  this  Merrie  England  ?  Some 
have  said  "  London ;"  perhaps  the  people  of  England 
themselves  say  "  London,"  and  not  without  reason.  We 
think,  however,  that  the  rural  districts  have  more  right 
to  that  title,  and  especially  that  part  of  the  island  which 
is  geographically  the  centre.  There  are  twenty  border 
counties  and  twenty  inland  counties,  and  in  none  of 
them  is  old  Merry  England  better  seen  than  in  the  fair 
counties  of  Warwick,  Worcester  and  Oxford.  Hither 
shall  we  lead  our  readers,  only  once  going  beyond  them — 
into  distant  Kent  that  we  may  look  upon  the  glories  of 
England's  mother-church.  Untrodden  ground  we  shall 
go  over,  with  that  one,  and  possibly  a  second,  exception  ; 
and  when  we  shall  finish  our  story,  we  trust  we  shall 
have  vindicated  our  title — at  least  to  the  extent  of  sug- 
gesting how  much  there  is  to  be  seen  and  known  in  the 
region  of  which  we  write.  Alas  !  we  can  give  only  the 
fragments,  only  the  outlines :  the  reader  must  himself 
allow  imagination  to  piece  together,  color  and  picture 
the  beautiful  whole. 

Nevertheless,  before  we  begin  that  work,  let  us  look 
somewhat  at  the  great  city  itself.  Everybody  goes  to 
London :  a  book  on  England  without  some  mention  of 
London  would  be  like  the  play  of  Hamlet  with  the  prince 
left  out.  As  to  the  provincial  people  of  the  land,  their 
ambition  is  to  visit  the  metropolis — once  in  their  life,  at 


INTR  OD  UCTOR  Y.  1 5 

least.  That  immediately  raises  a  man  to  a  pinnacle  of 
fame  far  higher  than  he  would  reach  by  a  voyage  across 
the  Atlantic,  or  even  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  He  is  an 
authority  upon  extraordinary  matters  for  ever  after,  seeing 
that  London  is  a  tangible  thing,  and  America,  Australia 
and  China  are,  after  all,  as  mysterious  and  questionable 
as  the  mountains  of  the  moon  or  the  rings  of  Saturn. 

And  a  wonderful  place  the  capital  is,  with  its  five  mil- 
lions of  people,  its  thronging  streets,  its  fine  buildings,  its 
restless  life,  its  noble  river  and  its  long,  thrilling  history. 
It  would  take  fifteen  or  sixteen  of  the  largest  towns  in 
England  to  equal  that  vast  population.  There  human 
life  swarms  ;  there  all  that  is  noble  and  all  that  is  base  in 
man  are  developed  and  manifested. 

One  singular  thing  about  London  is  that  the  stranger 
feels  at  home  within  the  first  hour  of  his  entering  its 
streets.  This  arises  partly  from  the  widespread  informa- 
tion concerning  the  place  and  everything  belonging  to  it, 
partly  from  its  admirable  accommodations  both  for  trav- 
elling about  and  for  lodging  and  eating,  and  partly  from 
the  fact  that  here  one  is  left  absolutely  alone.  Nobody 
looks  at  you ;  nobody  gives  you  a  thought.  Each  fol- 
lows out  the  thread  of  his  own  life  and  cares  nothing  for 
any  one  else's.  No  man,  however  ambitious  or  ostenta- 
tious he  may  be,  can  make  an  impression  in  London ;  he 
may  live  like  a  prince  or  dress  like  a  beggar  and  nobody 
will  take  the  least  notice  of  him.  He  is  a  drop  in  the 
ocean  of  humanity — that,  and  nothing  more. 

The  Abbey  is  the  first  place  to  be  seen.  Enter  as  the 
bells  are  chiming  for  morning  prayer  and  listen  to  the 
rendering  of  the  service  in  a  perfect  way.  The  voices 
are  correct ;  the  customs  are  simple.  The  General  Con- 


1 6  THE  HEART  OF  M ERR  IE  ENGLAND. 

fession  is  said  after,  and  not  with,  the  minister;  the 
Psalms  are  not  announced ;  the  reader,  when  he  leaves 
his  stall  for  the  lectern,  is  preceded  by  a  verger  carrying 
a  long  wand.  During  the  lesson  this  official  holds  the 
clergyman's  cap  and  at  the  close  accompanies  him  back 
again.  Owing  to  draughts  some  of  the  clergy  wear 
skull-caps.  Before  the  prayers  are  ended  the  devout 
worshipper  will  wonder  if  heaven  itself  is  more  impress- 
ive and  beautiful  than  this  marvellous  building,  with  its 
lofty  height  and  hallowed  associations.  When  this  duty 
is  over,  the  guides  are  ready  to  take  visitors  around  the 
building. 

Guides  are  useful  if  they  know  anything.  Generally 
speaking,  they  have  deep  sepulchral  voices  and  depress- 
ingly  melancholy  manners.  They  go  over  the  same 
story  so  often  that  their  interest  in  it  is  very  small. 
Fortunately,  the  means  of  description  are  not  confined 
to  them,  and  the  intelligent  visitor  can,  if  he  will,  know 
beforehand  more  than  they  can  tell  him.  He  will  look 
with  reverence  upon  the  tomb  of  Edward  the  Confessor 
and  walk  with  awe  near  the  grave  of  the  good  Queen 
Maud.  This  is  the  most  sacred  part  of  the  building, 
and  the  dark  arched  recesses  in  the  shrine  remind  one 
of  the  days  when  men  knelt  therein,  pressed  their  fore- 
heads against  the  cold  stone  and  prayed  for  healing  or 
for  pardon.  The  dust  of  kings  and  of  queens  is  beneath 
almost  every  part  of  this  hallowed  chapel.  There  lie  the 
remains  of  Henry  III.,  Edward  I.  and  the  beloved  Queen 
Eleanor,  Edward  III.  and  Henry  V.,  and  close  by  is  the 
ancient  coronation-chair  with  the  veritable  stone  upon 
which  Jacob  slept  at  Bethel  and  on  which  the  kings  of 
Scotland  and  of  England  have  been  crowned  for  many 


INTR  OD  UCTOR  Y.  I  / 

centuries,  ^he  chapel  of  Henry  VII.  is  one  of  the  most 
lovely  Gothic  buildings  in  the  world.  ^There  is  the  tomb 
of  that  king,  and  over  the  grave  of  Edward  VI.  a  mod- 
ern communion-table  of  rich  materials  has  been  placed. 
Objects  of  interest  await  one  at  every  turn — in  the  main 
structure  and  in  the  chapels.  Earth's  great  ones  lie  on 
every  side — poets,  statesmen  and  warriors,  as  well  as 
they  who  have  borne  the  sceptre  and  worn  the  crown. 
The  extent  and  massiveness  of  the  building,  as  well  as 
its  rare  beauty  and  splendor,  are  marvellous  and  grow 
upon  one.  Nor  should  the  Chapter-House  or  the  Dean's 
Yard  be  overlooked.  A  day  within  the  sacred  precincts 
is  better  than  a  thousand  elsewhere. 

The  effect  of  St.  Paul's  upon  the  mind  is  different. 
Its  vastness  overpowers,  but  the  pagan  architecture  can- 
not impress  one  in  the  same  way  as  the  Gothic.  Nor 
has  the  place  the  history  of  the  Abbey.  The  monu- 
ments are  severe  in  tone  ;  the  pulpit  is  of  costly  material. 
In  the  dome  is  the  Whispering  Gallery,  and  from  the 
Stone  Gallery  outside  a  splendid  view  of  the  city  may  be 
had  on  a  fine  day.  From  the  ground  to  this  point  are 
five  hundred  and  sixty  steps.  Lord  Nelson  and  the  duke 
of  Wellington  lie  in  the  crypt — the  former  in  the  sar- 
cophagus which  Wolsey  intended  for  himself;  but  he 
fell  from  favor,  and  it  was  kept  unused. 

Few  places  are  more  interesting  than  is  the  Tower.  We 
were  more  impressed  with  the  buildings  themselves  than 
with  the  crown  jewels,  resplendent  and  of  untold  wealth 
though  they  are.  The  past  came  back  again,  only  the 
Beefeaters,  with  their  nice  clean  collars  and  well-blacked 
boots,  seemed  somewhat  out  of  place.  The  "  Traitors' 
Gate  "  tells  its  own  story.  In  the  armories  are  the  an- 


18  THE  HEART  OF  M ERR  IE  ENGLAND. 

cient  equipments  of  war — battle-axes,  swords,  lances, 
etc.  How  the  soldiers  moved  in  such  heavy  encase- 
ments or  wielded  such  long  pikes  is  a  question.  Instru- 
ments of  torture  are  also  to  be  seen — the  thumbscrews, 
a  model  of  the  rack  and  the  block  and  axe  with  which 
some  great  ones  were  executed.  Between  the  White 
Tower  and  the  Beauchamp  Tower  is  the  spot  where  the 
prisoners  condemned  to  die  were  beheaded,  and  in  the 
Beauchamp  Tower  itself  is  the  room  where  the  state 
offenders  of  high  rank  were  kept.  They  seem  to  have 
spent  some  of  their  time  in  cutting  out  their  names  or 
devices  in  the  wall.  There  is  the  name  of  "Jane" — 
the  poor  lady  remembered  by  all  as  one  of  the  sweetest 
and  most  unfortunate  of  women.  In  St.  Peter's  Chapel, 
close  by,  are  the  monuments  of  many  of  those  who  suf- 
fered in  the  Tower.  Two  of  Henry  VIII.'s  wives  lie 
side  by  side  near  the  altar ;  Lady  Jane  Grey  is  also  there, 
with  many  another.  The  Beefeater  told  us  of  the  honor 
of  being  put  to  death  within  the  Tower :  outside,  a  rude 
and  thoughtless  mob  annoyed  and  maltreated  the  con- 
demned prisoner,  but  here  he  died  in  peace.  This  is 
grim  glory,  and  one  is  thankful  that  times  have  changed. 
The  Tower  brings  history  home  quicker  than  any 
other  place  in  London.  Its  stories  of  woe,  its  legends 
and  traditions,  weird,  sad,  mysterious,  are  written  in  liv- 
ing lines.  Its  very  ground  was  once  trodden  by  mighty 
ones ;  we  see  the  same  great  walls  they  saw,  thread  our 
way  through  the  same  dark,  narrow  passages  and  sit  in 
the  rooms  where  many  of  them  spent  their  last  hours. 
It  is  a  past  full  of  shadows — the  young  princes  smother- 
ing in  the  dead  of  the  night,  Anne  Boleyn  suffering  the 
cruelty  of  a  selfish  king,  and  many  another  character 


INTR  OD  UCTOR  Y.  1 9 

famous  in  history  passing  through  trial  for  charges, 
sometimes,  of  suspicion  or  jealousy  only.  Will  that 
gloomy  fortress  ever  reveal  the  secrets  in  its  keeping  ? 

Up  the  Thames,  near  to  the  Abbey,  are  the  Parliament 
Buildings,  stately  and  large.  The  Victoria  Tower  is  a 
work  of  art ;  under  it  we  enter,  and  pass  through  the 
Queen's  Robing-Room,  the  Royal  Galleries  and  the 
Princes'  Chamber  into  the  House  of  Lords.  The  paint- 
ings, statuary,  decorations  and  architecture  are  elaborate; 
the  throne  and  woolsack,  of  interest.  On  the  way  to 
the  House  of  Commons  are  some  remarkable  pictures, 
but  in  the  chamber  where  the  faithful  representatives  of 
the  boroughs  and  shires  meet  splendor  has  given  place 
to  severe  simplicity.  From  St.  Stephen's  Hall  is  reached 
the  famous  Westminster  Hall ;  here  the  carved  and  wide 
roof  attracts  attention.  The  remembrance  of  the  his- 
torical scenes  which  have  taken  place  there  subdues  the 
mind.  Within  these  walls  were  tried  Charles  I.  and  the 
seven  bishops ;  within  these  walls  the  unfortunate  Rich- 
ard II.  was  deposed  and  Oliver  Cromwell  was  installed 
as  Lord  Protector.  It  is  a  place  for  thinking  mighty 
thoughts. 

Of  the  Guildhall,  with  its  picture-gallery,  museum, 
library  and  great  chamber,  the  Royal  Exchange,  the 
Bank  of  England,  Paternoster  Row  and  the  Monument 
it  is  unnecessary  to  say  anything.  The  British  Museum 
contains  some  of  the  greatest  wonders  in  the  world. 
The  buildings  are  so  large  and  have  so  many  curiosities 
that  one  can  get  only  a  vague  bird's-eye  view  of  the  whole. 
There  are  old  manuscripts  and  illuminated  books  beau- 
tifully and  wonderfully  executed  by  the  men  of  bygone 
days.  Printing  can  scarcely  equal  some  of  the  monkish 


20       THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

work :  the  colors  are  bright  and  fresh  as  ever,  the  pen- 
manship— oftentimes  exceedingly  small — is  accurate  and 
the  binding  is  strong  and  lasting.  Next  to  Bibles,  mis- 
sals, psalters  and  Hours  of  ihe  Virgin,  the  most  popular 
manuscript  books  were  the  Romaunt  de  la  Rose  and 
Froissart.  Some  of  these  volumes — or,  at  least,  the  like 
— were  handled  by  men  and  women  whose  ashes  lie  in 
the  Abbey  or  at  the  Tower.  In  the  Museum,  however, 
one  is  taken  back  to  ages  which  were  ancient  when  Eng- 
land was  young.  In  one  of  the  Egyptian  rooms  are 
mummies  two  or  three  thousand  years  old.  Some  of 
the  coffins  are  very  elaborately  painted  in  bright  colors, 
with  figures  of  gods  and  many  devices.  The  face  of  the 
deceased  is  delineated  on  the  coffin,  and  such  designs 
differ  enough  from  one  another  to  make  one  pretty  sure 
that  they  are  correct,  and  not  conventional  representa- 
tions. The  wood  of  the  coffin  is  very  thick — in  some 
instances,  eight  inches — and  some  bodies  have  two  cof- 
fins. The  hands  of  the  deceased  are  frequently  repre- 
sented as  crossed  on  the  breast.  There  is  a  coffin  con- 
taining the  mummy  of  a  Graeco- Egyptian  child — prob- 
ably a  girl,  and  about  six  years  old — dating,  according 
to  the  printed  label  from  Thebes,  about  A.  D.  100.  On 
the  painted  cover  she  is  represented  as  having  a  wreath 
upon  her  head  and  a  flower  in  her  left  hand — somebody's 
darling  sent  into  the  dark  realm  from  amid  the  sorrow- 
ings of  loved  ones  left  behind.  There  are  also  the  mum- 
mies of  many  of  the  great  Egyptian  princes  and  states- 
men; also  of  cats,  snakes,  ibis,  geese  and  gazelles. 
"Tabby"  is  there,  unmistakably.  Figures  of  the  deity 
are  common ;  so  are  Egyptian  hairpins  with  the  image 
of  Aphrodite  on  the  top,  and  lamps  curiously  ornamented 


INTR  OD  UCTOR  Y.  21 

with  devices  of  Dionysos  and  Ariadne,  Venus,  and  other 
favorite  personages.  There  is  one  lamp  with  a  cast  of  a 
locust  on  an  ear  of  corn.  That  children  have  always 
been  children  the  ancient  toys  testify. 

In  the  Assyrian  and  other  departments  the  objects  of 
interest  are  as  great.  The  wealth  of  collection  is  enor- 
mous. One  is  bewildered — perhaps  provoked — with  the 
consciousness  of  brief  time ;  there  is  the  material  for 
years  of  study.  The  place  is  worthy  of  England;  to 
see  the  Reading-Room  is  itself  deserving  of  a  trip  to 
London. 

It  is  the  correct  thing  to  visit  and  admire  the  wax- 
works of  Madame  Tussaud  in  Marylebone.  We  did  the 
one ;  the  other  was  not  so  easy.  At  the  best  the  charac- 
ters presented  are  only  imitations ;  there  is  nothing  real. 
The  "  Chamber  of  Horrors  "  contains  a  ghastly  array  of 
celebrated  murderers ;  morbid  taste  which  makes  it  the 
favorite  corner  of  the  building  !  In  the  grand  salon  are 
wax  figures  of  old  men  and  women  sitting  or  standing 
here  and  there,  turning  their  heads  and  looking  so  like 
life  that  many  visitors  find  themselves  for  the  moment 
deceived. 

They  who  love  pictures  will  visit  the  Royal  Academy 
and  the  National  Gallery.  Kew  Gardens  will  satisfy  the 
disciples  of  botany  with  its  lovely  grounds,  noble  vistas 
and  extensive  collection  of  flowers,  trees  and  plants. 
The  Cleopatra  obelisk  looks  unspeakably  lonely  on  the 
Thames  Embankment.  A  day  at  the  Zoological  Gar- 
dens will  not  exhaust  its  treasures. 

But  we  may  not  thus  travel  over  London.  Volumes 
would  be  needed  to  tell  the  story  of  its  wonderful  places. 
The  people  themselves  are  curious. 


22       THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

Is  there  a  busier  thoroughfare  in  the  world  than  Fleet 
street  and  the  Strand?  A  river  of  humanity  flowing 
hither  and  thither  ceaselessly !  Strange  in  an  instant  to 
turn  aside  into  the  calm  of  the  Temple !  That  is  the 
peculiarity  of  London — its  quiet  nooks  and  corners 
close  to  its  noisy  centres.  And  there  are  streets  of  rare 
splendor  where  wealth  displays  itself  in  unequalled  mag- 
nificence, and  there  are  streets  of  rare  poverty  such  as 
the  world  knows  nothing  of  elsewhere.  It  is  not  very 
far  from  Rotten  Row  to  the  slums  of  vice  and  infamy, 
but  the  contrast  is  beyond  measuring.  The  want  and 
misery,  the  brazen-faced  sin,  of  these  back  streets  and 
lanes,  are  terrible.  The  Church  is  striving  to  grapple 
with  the  evil,  but  the  work  is  appalling.  Where  and 
how  do  the  millions  live  ?  Yet  there  is  no  confusion, 
no  bustle ;  everything  is  orderly :  the  great  city  has  too 
much  to  do  to  be  in  a  hurry. 

London  has  some  great  preachers.  Their  names  are 
on  every  one's  lips — Liddon,  Spurgeon  and  Parker. 
They  are  not  to  be  compared  together ; '  each  is  a 
master  in  his  own  way.  When  they  preach,  thou- 
sands of  people  go  to  hear  them.  They  are  the 
world's  favorites,  and  each  of  them  addresses  an  audi- 
ence gathered  from  all  parts  of  the  earth.  After  them 
come  others  at  a  respectful  distance — some  about  as  far 
as  the  west  is  from  the  east.  There  is  no  doubt  that 
the  English  and  American  ideals  of  preaching  differ,  but 
the  standard  is  higher  on  the  western  side  of  the  Atlan- 
tic, the  preacher  is  better  able  to  attract  his  hearers  and 
the  people  are  quicker  in  appreciation.  England,  how- 
ever, more  than  holds  its  own  in  singing.  The  masses 
have  voices  and  the  choirs  a  perfection  of  which  we  can 


INTRODUCTORY.  23 

only  dream.  On  one  church  door  I  saw  a  notice  that 
on  the  following  Sunday  would  be  held  the  annual  bap- 
tismal service.  Whether  this  meant  that  baptism  was 
administered  only  once  a  year  I  do  not  know,  but  un- 
derneath the  notice  was,  "  Baptism  is  a  sign  that  God 
loves  us  all,  even  little  children." 

English  is  spoken  in  London,  but  among  the  ordinary 
people  the  aspirate  suffers.  One  day  the  conductor  on 
an  omnibus  cried  out,  "  'Yde  Park !"  and  a  gentleman 
said  to  him,  "  You  have  dropped  something." — "  What  ?" 
he  asked,  in  alarm,  looking  around. — "  An  H,"  the  gen- 
tleman replied. — "  That's  nothing,"  was  the  answer  from 
the  much-relieved  official ;  "  I  shall  pick  it  up  in  Hisl- 
ington." 

The  well-paved  and  orderly  streets  attract  as  much  at- 
tention as  does  the  dim,  smoky  atmosphere.  The  effect 
of  the  latter  on  one's  linen  is  soon  discerned ;  the  former 
are  as  clean  as  a  new  pin.  A  yellow  fog  is  the  most 
distressing  calamity,  but  in  the  summer  such  rarely  or 
never  occurs.  Nowhere  do  the  people  seem  more  happy. 
The  bootblack  and  the  apple-woman  have  the  sunshine 
of  felicity  upon  them.  "  Misery  "  appears  to  be  a  rela- 
tive term.  The  poor  are  not  so  miserable  as  their  bet- 
ters suppose  them  to  be ;  indeed,  they  manage  to  squeeze 
as  much  pleasure  out  of  life  as  they  who  live  in  palaces 
of  cedar.  Nor  have  the  poor  complained :  their  griev- 
ances have  been  made  known  by  those  in  higher  cir- 
cumstances. Some  of  them  love  their  poverty.  Alas 
that  it  should  be  so  !  for  poverty  means  degradation 
and  dependence — in  many  instances,  vice  unnamable. 

We  hurry  out  of  the  smoke  and  bustle  and  seek  the 
railway- station.  Here  we  read  of  the  "  Daily  Service 


24  THE   HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

of  Trains ;"  the  meaning  is  obvious,  though  the  use  is 
startling. 

The  railway-coaches  appear  tiny  and  quaint  to  one 
accustomed  to  the  huge,  pew-like  cars  of  America. 
Some  do  not  like  the  compartments,  though  a  little 
use  shows  that  they  have  advantages,  and  are,  at  any 
rate,  snug  and  comfortable.  If  you  wish  for  amuse- 
ment, see  how  the  open,  honest-looking,  apple-round 
faces  of  the  railway  servants  expand  under  the  genial 
influence  of  a  tip.  The  chances  for  trying  this  experi- 
ment on  others  besides  railway  servants  are  of  frequent 
occurrence  in  England,  and,  though  the  effect  may  be 
otherwise  with  the  giver,  there  is  no  doubt  of  its  pleas- 
ing efficacy  with  the  receiver.  Away  rushes  the  train 
into  the  heart  of  merry  and  lovely  England.  The  hay- 
makers are  busy  in  the  fields ;  the  trees  and  hedgerows 
display  their  sweet,  fresh  green ;  peace  and  beauty  rest 
and  play  in  the  sunshine,  on  the  soft  and  velvety  lawns 
and  in  the  shaded  lanes.  Cottages  and  mansions  spring 
into  view,  and  flower-gardens  rich  with  a  profusion  of 
roses  such  as  can  grow  only  in  this  rich  land.  The  vil- 
lages through  which  we  pass  seem  to  sleep  in  the  indo- 
lence of  rural  glory  and  the  quietude  of  honored  age. 
One  has  the  sign  on  its  solitary  tavern  of  "  The  Old 
House  at  Home  " — a  happy  suggestion. 

When  our  journey  ends,  it  is  in  one  of  the  districts 
of  England  as  delightful  in  its  quiet  beauty  as  it  is 
precious  to  us  for  its  associations  of  bygone  days. 


CHAPTER   II. 

Utllage  on  tlje 


"  And  the  voice  of  man  is  a  voice  of  change, 
Mirthful  and  passionate,  loving  and  strange  ; 
But,  be  the  day  cloudy  or  brief  or  long, 
The  river  will  sing  you  the  same  old  song." 

IN  a  secluded  and  detached  part  of  Worcestershire, 
ten  miles  to  the  south  of  Stratford-on-Avon,  and  sur- 
rounded by  the  counties  of  Warwick,  Oxford  and  Glou- 
cester, is  the  forgotten  town  of  Shipston-on-Stour.  The 
town  is  pre-Norman  in  origin  and  was  once  famous  for 
its  sheep-markets.  It  fell  asleep  some  two  centuries 
since,  and  so  far  the  tumult  and  turmoil  of  the  present 
age  have  failed  to  awaken  it.  A  single  telegraph-wire,  a 
mail-cart  passing  through  early  in  the  morning  and  late 
at  night  and  two  carriers'  vans  connect  it  with  the  out- 
side world,  and  weekly  papers  from  Banbury,  Evesham 
and  Stratford  keep  the  inhabitants  informed  on  the 
changes  of  the  moon  and  the  alternations  of  govern- 
ment. The  people  lament  their  isolation.  Thirty  years 
ago  they  decided  that  a  railway  was  necessary  for  their 
welfare  and  progress  ;  they  have  affirmed  that  decision 
several  times  since,  but  the  railway  has  not  come.  Two 
or  three  times  they  have  started  a  newspaper  of  their 
own,  but  the  enterprise  speedily  came  to  grief.  Its 

25 


26       THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

drapers  and  milliners  furnish  the  latest  styles  in  gowns 
and  bonnets,  cloths  and  collars — that  is  to  say,  the  latest 
styles  of  which  they  know  anything,  though  in  London 
they  are  spoken  of  as  "  late  "  in  another  sense.  The 
streets  are  old ;  the  houses  are  old ;  the  men  and  women, 
the  boys  and  girls,  are  old;  everything  is  musty  with 
age  and  quaint  with  peculiarity.  There  are  fences  and 
barns,  tumble-down,  patched-up,  worn-out,  as  they  were 
twenty  or  thirty  years  since.  Some  of  the  thatch  has 
not  been  touched  for  half  a  century.  The  wooden  pump 
in  the  middle  of  New  street  was  old  when  the  paint  on 
the  rectory  fence  was  new — apparently  in  the  days  of 
William  IV.  Inns  and  their  signs,  cottages  and  their 
windows,  the  lamp-posts  and  the  trees,  look  as  if  they 
had  never  known  anything  but  age  and  rest.  It  is  hard 
to  realize  that  the  streets  have  been  mended  since  the 
day  when  troopers  rattled  over  them  on  their  way  to 
Edgehill.  In  1780,  Nash,  the  historian  of  Worcester- 
shire, wrote  :  "  Here  was  a  considerable  manufacture  of 
shaggs,  carried  on  by  one  Mr.  Hart,  but,  that  declining, 
the  town  was  left  in  great  poverty.  Many  of  the  houses 
are  still  thatched,  but,  as  the  unemployed  manufacturers 
die,  migrate  to  other  places  or  take  to  other  businesses, 
the  town  is  not  so  burthened  with  poor,  and  subsequently 
improves  much  in  appearance."  Seventy  years  later  an- 
other visitor  wrote :  The  place  "  leads  one's  thoughts 
irresistibly  to  the  past,  and  to  the  conclusion  that  this  is 
by  no  means  a  '  go-ahead '  town."  In  1851  the  popula- 
tion numbered  1757  persons;  in  1881,  1600. 

And  in  this  lies  its  charm :  its  very  dulness  attracts 
and  pleases.  It  is  something  to  go  back  to  times  when 
the  world  was  different  from  the  present.  Here  one  can 


THE    VILLAGE    ON  THE  STOUR.  2/ 

without  effort  picture  village  life  as  it  was  centuries  ago, 
and  see  for  one's  self  how  and  where  past  generations 
lived.  The  restfulness  is  refreshing  and  delightful.  De- 
cay may  be  in  all  one  sees ;  change  is  not. 

To  describe  the  topography  of  Shipston  is  somewhat 
difficult.  The  town  is  on  the  highway  from  Birming- 
ham to  Oxford — about  halfway  between  those  places, 
and  between  Stratford  and  Chapel  House.  The  "  Half- 
way House,"  a  secluded  cottage,  is  by  the  side  of  the 
road,  between  Tredington  and  the  Honington  tollgate. 
The  highway  enters  the  place  at  its  northern  end,  and, 
bending  a  little  to  the  left,  goes  for  some  distance  past 
the  church,  when  it  divides,  one  branch  turning  to  the 
east  for  Banbury,  and  the  other,  the  main  road,  after  a 
twist  to  the  right  and  then  to  the  left,  passing  through 
New  street  to  Chipping  Norton.  This  highway  may  be 
called  the  base  of  the  town ;  it  is  irregularly  built  up, 
and,  as  the  river  runs  along  the  gardens  of  the  houses 
on  the  eastern  side,  there  are  no  streets  in  that  direction. 
Its  principal  feature  is  the  church,  of  which  more  pres- 
ently. On  the  western  side  there  are  other  thorough- 
fares coming  in.  The  first,  Horn  lane,  is  a  narrow  way 
running  the  full  breadth  of  the  place ;  a  little  farther  is 
a  short  street  called  the  Shambles,  branching  off  like  the 
arms  of  the  letter  Y,  one  of  which  branches  runs  parallel 
with  Horn  lane  into  a  continuation  known  as  Sheep  street, 
and  the  other  into  the  centre  of  the  town.  This  centre 
is  a  sort  of  crooked  square,  a  queer-looking  triangle 
with  a  narrow  base  and  the  apex  cut  off — an  approach 
to  a  parallelogram.  Euclid  has  no  diagram  that  comes 
near  that  "  centre ;"  and  if  he  had  tried  to  describe  it 
mathematically,  he  would  never  have  made  A  B  equal 


28       THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

to  C  D,  nor  A  C  equal  to  B  D,  nor  any  other  combina- 
tions or  comparisons  coequal.  This  "  centre,"  with 
Sheep  street  at  one  end,  and  the  twist  of  the  London 
highway  at  the  other,  contains  the  principal  shops,  banks 
and  one  of  the  leading  hotels  of  the  place.  At  its  south- 
ern end  another  lane  joins  the  London  road,  forming  the 
third  and  last  street  across  the  town.  In  this  lane  was 
till  lately  an  old  tavern  known  as  the  "  Swan,"  hence  its 
name.  Between  the  "  Swan  "  and  the  High  street — that 
is  the  name  of  the  indescribable  centre — is  the  Back 
road,  which  runs  in  the  same  direction  as  New  street, 
and  finally  joins  it.  The  Swan  lane  changes  into  the 
road  to  Moreton-in-the-Marsh,  and  at  right  angles  with 
its  western  end  is  the  road  passing  by  Sheep  street  and 
Horn  lane  to  Darlingscote.  There  are  few  really  old 
houses  in  Shipston,  but  one  at  the  top  of  Sheep  street 
dates  from  1678,  another  in  the  same  street  from  1714, 
and  the  Crown  Inn,  in  the  Shambles,  also  from  this 
later  year. 

In  Sheep  street  is  the  building  formerly  used  by  the 
national  school.  It  is  a  small  old  cottage  with  one  room, 
in  which  the  poor  boys  and  girls  of  the  town  received 
their  "  education."  It  is  now  empty  and  deserted,  the 
one  window  broken,  the  roof  falling  in  and  the  little  tin 
kettle  of  a  bell  rusty  and  bent.  Possibly  the  house  was 
built  in  the  early  part  of  the  last  century.  A  relic  of 
departed  grandeur,  but  nearly  all  the  old  folks  in  the 
place  who  can  read  their  Bible  and  write  their  name  ob- 
tained the  rudiments  there.  If  they  did  not  learn  deci- 
mal fractions,  they  were  drilled  in  the  Catechism ;  and, 
as  all  men  know,  it  is  better  to  understand  how  to  live 
than  how  to  get  a  living.  Now  the  youth  are  sent  to 


THE    VILLAGE    ON  THE   STOUR.  2$ 

the  new  and  commodious  buildings  in  the  Stratford  road. 
The  board  school  has  possession  of  the  town,  and  the 
board  school  is  struggling  to  brighten  the  juvenile  in- 
telligence. It  has  its  hands  full.  The  boys,  girls  and 
infants  are  separated ;  teachers  and  monitors  are  set 
in  each  department;  excellent  text-books  are  used,  and 
everything  is  done  to  give  a  fair  secular  education.  Re- 
ligion is  not  taught :  the  English  people  are  religious  by 
instinct,  and  do  not  need  to  learn  anything  of  that  kind. 
In  days  gone  by,  when  the  State  appreciated  the  educa- 
tion and  health  of  the  spiritual  faculties,  it  insisted  upon 
every  one  attending  church,  and  fined  and  punished 
those  who  stayed  away;  a  great  outcry  was  made  in 
later  years,  and  even  now  some  are  not  tired  of  flinging 
abuse  of  every  kind  at  our  forefathers  because  of  this,  as 
its  opponents  called  it,  tyranny  and  bigotry ;  but  in  this  age 
the  State,  in  its  desire  to  educate  and  enliven  the  mental 
faculties,  insists  upon  every  boy  and  every  girl  going  to 
school,  and,  if  the  child  does  not,  fines  and  punishes  the 
parents.  Nay,  the  people  are  obliged  to  pay  in  taxes  for 
the  maintenance  of  a  school  system  in  which  many  of 
them  do  not  believe.  Still,  we  must  remember  that  arith- 
metic is  of  more  consequence  than  are  Scripture  les- 
sons, and  that  it  is  vastly  more  important  that  a  boy's 
mind  should  be  filled  with  the  scraps  of  erudition  which 
are  chipped  off  the  school-board  curriculum  than  that 
his  soul  should  be  possessed  with  a  sense  of  his  duty 
toward  God  and  his  neighbor.  Times  have  changed. 
The  State,  which  neither  endowed  nor  established  the 
Church,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  robbed  her  of  half  her 
wealth  at  the  Reformation,  and  is  now  contemplating 
taking  away  the  other  half,  has  given  largely  to  the 


3O      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

school  and  supports  it  with  all  the  force  of  its  authority. 
There  is  in  England  no  such  thing  as  an  established 
Church,  but  there  is  an  established  school.  Valiantly  is 
the  school  board  righting  its  way.  But  the  material ! 
Is  there  anything  in  the  lands  beyond  the  setting  sun 
approaching  the  pure  blockheadedness  of  the  English 
peasant-boy  ?  He  is  dull,  heavy,  stupid,  and,  compared 
with  the  youth  on  the  western  shores  of  the  Atlantic,  is 
as  the  blunt  edge  of  a  rusty  knife  beside  the  fine  keen 
edge  of  a  good  razor.  The  transformation  of  a  thick- 
limbed  dray-horse  into  a  light,  fleet  racer  or  a  nimble  cir- 
cus-performer presents  no  greater  difficulty  than  does  the 
uplifting  and  bettering  of  the  sons  and  daughters  of  poor 
Hodge.  In  the  palace  of  the  Caesars  at  Rome  there  is 
a  rude  sketch  on  the  wall,  done  many  centuries  ago,  of 
a  schoolmaster  wearing  an  ass's  head  and  turning  the 
handle  of  a  conical  stone  mill,  into  which  he  is  putting 
boys  to  grind.  The  point  of  the  satire  is  that  the  boys 
are  coming  out  at  the  bottom  exactly  as  they  went  in. 
I  do  not  imply  that  this  is  the  case  with  the  material  of 
the  school  board ;  I  only  tell  a  pleasant  story.  But,  as 
caste  is  very  strongly  marked,  as  soon  as  the  middle  class 
is  reached  a  higher  grade  of  intellectual  power  is  mani- 
fest. For  the  boys  of  the  better-to-do  people  in  Shipston 
there  is  a  large  and  good  school  under  private  auspices 
and  dignified  with  the  name  of  "  the  Academy."  It  is 
not  so  styled  after  the  Academic  Franchise,  but  it  can 
give  a  lad  a  start  toward  the  higher  life.  Some  of  its 
scholars  have  gone  creditably  through  the  university, 
and  it  is  said  that  its  earnest  and  accomplished  master 
once  succeeded  in  carrying  a  heavy  son  of  a  heavy  far- 
mer as  far  as  the  eleventh  page  of  Hopkins's  ortho- 


THE    VILLAGE    ON   THE  STOUR.  3! 

graphical  exercises  and  up  to  the  verb  "  To  have "  in 
Lindley  Murray.  Of  this  latter  feat  I  cannot  speak  with 
certainty,  but  at  seven  o'clock  every  summer  morning 
the  whole  school  was  marshalled  in  the  courtyard  for  an 
hour's  drill.  There  was  an  opinion  that  this  was  neces- 
sary in  order  to  vindicate  the  right  of  the  institution  to 
be  called  an  "  academy." 

The  present  parish  church  was  built  on  the  site  of  an 
older  one  about  the  year  1853.  The  old  church  had 
reached  a  state  when  removal  was  absolutely  necessary. 
It  was  remarkable  not  only  for  its  slovenly  and  mongrel 
appearance,  but  also  for  the  egotism  and  petty  vanity 
displayed  on  its  walls.  About  1826  the  building  was 
whitewashed,  and  the  churchwardens  under  whose  di- 
rections this  important  work  was  done  had  their  names 
inscribed  in  large  letters  at  the  western  end.  "  So,  like- 
wise," said  one  who  knew  the  old  edifice  well,  "  on  the 
table  of  charities,  whoever  had  presented  a  pulpit-cloth 
or  furniture  for  the  communion-table,  or  repaired  the 
front  of  the  gallery,  or  some  other  little  matter,  was 
posted  up  for  the  admiring  eyes  of  after-generations." 
One  of  these  benefactors  repaired  the  pavement  in  the 
churchyard,  it  has  been  said,  by  abstracting  the  grave- 
stones of  his  neighbors.  The  only  thing  which  saved 
the  place  from  the  lowest  kind  of  obituary  desecration 
was  that  it  had  no  tablet  like  unto  one  which  is  to  be 
found  in  the  porch  of  another  Worcestershire  church. 
It  is  to  the  memory  of  a  man  who  died  in  1772,  and  the 
inscription  is  as  follows : 

"  A  man  for  polite  knowledge  and  true  taste  in  useful  literature 
justly  esteemed ;  nor  in  the  social  virtues  as  a  sincere  friend,  a 
good  neighbour,  and  an  honest  man,  less  regarded.  At  his  own 

8 


32      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

particular  desire  he  was  buried  beneath  this  stone,  that  his  friends 
the  poor,  as  they  pass  over  his  grave,  might  lay  their  hands  upon 
their  hearts,  and  say,  '  It  was  his  modesty,  not  his  pride,  that 
directed  this  request.' " 

The  following  epitaphs  were  preserved  at  Shipston ; 
the  first  is  still  at  the  west  end  of  the  church,  but  the 
others  were  in  the  yard,  and  are  now  undecipherable : 

TO  GULIELMUS  HYCKES  (1652). 
"  Here  lies  entomb'd  more  men  than  Greece  admired, 
More  than  Pythagoras  transient  soule  inspired, 
Many  in  one,  a  man  accumulate, 
Gentleman,  Artist,  Scholar,  Church,  World,  State : 
Soe  wise,  soe  just,  that  spot  him  noe  man  could. 
Pitty  that  I,  with  my  weake  prayses  should. 
Goe  then,  greate  spirit,  obey  thy  suddaine  call — 
Wild  fruits  hang  long — the  purer  tymely  fall." 

"  Beneath  this  stone  three  tender  buds  are  laid, 
No  sooner  blossom'd  but  alas  they  fade ; 
In  silence  lie,  in  hopes  again  to  bloom 
After  the  final  day  of  mortal  doom. 
Oh  then  these  buds  which  did  so  early  blast, 
Shall  flourish  whilst  eternal  ages  last." 

"  Death  lopt  me  of,  and  laide  me  here  to  sleepe ; 
My  viol's  tun'd  to  th'  sound  of  them  that  weep. 
Yett  God,  I  trust,  will  grant  my  soul's  desire, 
To  sing  a  part  in  His  most  heavenly  quire." 

Of  the  old  church,  only  the  tower  remains.  The  new 
building  has  a  nave  and  two  aisles  and  is  singularly 
void  of  ornamentation.  A  few  texts  over  the  arches 
and  a  colored  eastern  window  are  the  only  attempts  at 
aesthetic  display.  The  architectural  proportions  are 
good,  but  the  pews  are  narrow  and  not  made  for  kneel- 
ing-purposes,  and  the  pulpit  is  of  a  shape  and  character 


THE    VILLAGE    ON  THE  STOUR.  33 

to  suggest  its  having  once  been  a  chimney-pot  on  an 
old-time  mansion.  A  dreary  building,  drearier  still  in 
its  reproachful  emptiness.  Formerly  the  edifice  was 
crowded  at  both  Sunday  services ;  now  a  bare  handful 
of  worshippers  in  the  morning  and  a  scarcely  larger 
company  in  the  evening  indicate  either  inefficiency  of 
ministration  or  the  dying  out  of  church-interest.  Matins 
and  evensong  are  said  every  day ;  the  rector  is  there, 
the  pillars  and  pews  are  there,  but  even  the  bell-ringer 
runs  off  to  attend  to  her  household  duties  as  soon  as 
the  service  begins.  The  parish  priest  is  conscientious  in 
his  performance  of  this  daily  office ;  the  people  are  as 
conscientious  in  staying  away.  Were  half  a  dozen 
worshippers  present,  the  surprise  and  excitement  would 
endanger  the  health  of  the  rector  for  some  time.  In 
view  of  the  apparent  change  in  his  parishioners  and  the 
approaching  end  of  the  world,  he  would  apply  himself 
with  renewed  vigor  to  the  house-to-house  visitation  of 
the  people.  The  nonconformist  places  of  worship,  how- 
ever, are  filled  to  overflowing  and  street-preachers  are 
common.  The  glory  has  departed !  This,  which  should 
be  the  centre  of  Church  power  and  influence  throughout 
the  district,  neither  recognizes  the  dignity  and  extent  of 
its  capabilities  nor  puts  forth  a  sign  of  interest  or  vitality. 
Perhaps  the  most  painful  thought  connected  with  this 
decay  of  a  once-prosperous  parish  is  its  suggestion  of 
the  powerlessness  of  the  ecclesiastical  organization.  The 
diocesan  authorities  may  see  the  church  go  to  ruin,  but 
they  cannot  interfere.  The  parishioners  may  watch  the 
wasting  away  of  their  spiritual  heritage,  but  they  can  do 
nothing.  Even  the  bishop  has  no  coercive  jurisdiction. 
We  manage  these  things  better  in  America.  There  the 


34  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

whole  force  and  authority  of  the  Church  would  be 
brought  to  bear  upon  such  a  state  of  affairs  as  that 
which  here  exists,  and  either  the  parish  would  have  to 
live  and  work  or  it  would  be  put  away  to  rest  for  ever. 
The  rectorial  income,  derived  from  endowment,  is  up- 
ward of  eight  hundred  pounds  a  year ;  the  church  in- 
come, derived  from  the  pew-rents  and  offertory,  is  not 
sufficient  to  pay  the  small  expenses  of  the  building. 
The  best  pews  contain  five  sittings  and  rent  for  twenty- 
nine  shillings  a  year ;  in  America  the  same  pews  would 
rent  for  upward  of  fifteen  pounds,  and  in  large  Church 
centres  for  even  twenty-five  pounds.  The  well-to-do 
folk  of  Shipston  can  make  two  guineas  cover  their  indi- 
vidual church  expenses ;  the  same  class  of  people  in  the 
United  States  would  not  find  the  limit  under  fifty  times 
that  amount.  A  parish  of  sixteen  hundred  souls,  with- 
out debt  to  satisfy,  endowment  to  secure  or  clergyman 
to  support,  which  is  obliged  to  send  its  churchwardens 
around  the  town  to  collect  a  deficit  of  seventeen  pounds 
— which  personal  canvass  resulted  an  Easter  or  so  since 
in  gathering  but  ten  pounds — can  neither  live  with  credit 
nor  die  with  dignity.  The  hopelessness  of  its  condition 
appears  in  the  lack  of  hospitality :  the  stranger  will  find 
no  welcome  either  by  a  visit  from  the  rector  or  an  offer 
of  a  seat  in  the  church  from  the  parishioners. 

The  edifice  is  dedicated  to  St.  Edmund  of  Canterbury. 
He  was  born  at  Abingdon  about  the  year  1 190,  and  was 
remarkable  for  his  scholarship,  his  ascetic  and  pure  life 
and  his  bold  efforts  to  better  the  times  in  which  he  lived. 
He  inherited  his  mother's  severe  religious  convictions : 
"  She  fasted  much  and  slept  little,  wore  a  hair  chemise  and 
iron  stays,  and  made  her  household  so  uncomfortable  by 


THE    VILLAGE    ON  THE  STOUR.  35 

her  arrangements  that  her  husband,  with  her  consent, 
retired  to  a  monastery  at  Eynesham,  as  likely  to  be  a 
more  enjoyable  home."  At  Oxford,  while  a  mere  gram- 
mar student,  he  determined  never  to  wed  an  earthly 
bride :  "  Standing  alone  one  day  in  church,  he  plighted 
his  troth  to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and  in  token  thereof 
placed  a  gold  ring  on  the  finger  of  her  image.  He 
placed  another  ring,  similarly  inscribed  with  the  words 
of  the  angelic  salutation,  on  his  own  finger,  where  he 
wore  it  constantly  until  the  day  of  his  death."  After  a 
career  of  honor  and  usefulness  he  was  made  archbishop 
of  Canterbury  in  1234,  and  it  has  well  been  said  that 
"  in  the  long  succession  of  primates  it  is  not  easy  to  find 
one  who  surpasses  him  in  the  perfections  of  the  Chris- 
tian character  or  in  the  attributes  of  a  Christian  bishop." 
His  patriotism,  resistance  to  Rome  and  efforts  to  reform 
the  Church  give  him  a  lasting  place  in  the  pages  of 
English  history.  There  was  much  evil  in  the  age,  but  he 
was  as  a  clear  and  shining  light  in  the  darkness.  When, 
owing  to  repeated  defeat,  he  resigned  the  see  of  Canter- 
bury, he  retired  to  the  Continent,  and  in  1240,  at  the 
priory  of  Soissy,  he  died.  His  remains  were  interred  at 
Pontigny,  and  soon  his  fame  rivalled  that  of  his  prede- 
cessor, St.  Thomas.  He  was  canonized,  and  miracles 
were  performed  at  his  shrine. 

The  parish  was  down  to  the  year  1720  subject  to  and 
part  of  the  jurisdiction  of  Tredington.  An  almost  com- 
plete list  of  the  rectors  of  the  parish  from  the  year  1282 
is  extant.  From  1427  to  1873  there  were  twenty-two 
rectors,  of  whom  Peter  Vannes,  archdeacon  of  Wor- 
cester, was  remarkable  both  for  his  incumbency  being 
the  longest  of  any — fifty  years — and  also  for  his  guid- 


36      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

ing  the  parish  through  the  trying  Reformation  era,  from 
1541  to  1591.  The  continuity  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land is  thus  exemplified.  Other  long  rectorships  were 
those  of  Walter  Fitzwarin  (1282-1310),  Felix  de  Mas- 
saveria  (1503-1541)  and  William  Evans  (1827-1873). 
The  first  of  these  was  probably  of  Norman  descent ; 
the  second  was  an  Italian,  and  the  third  a  Welshman. 
In  Henry  Sampson,  who  died  in  1482  and  has  a  brass 
to  his  memory  in  the  mother-church  at  Tredington,  we 
are  reminded  of  one  of  Carlyle's  characters ;  but  whether 
he  were  like  unto  the  hero  of  Past  and  Present  we  know 
not.  A  complete  list  of  the  curates  of  Shipston  from 
1596  is  also  in  existence. 

In  the  old  registers  are  items  of  interest  to  the  curi- 
ously inclined.  It  was  in  the  twenty-ninth  year  of  the 
reign  of  Henry  VIII.  (1538)  the  injunction  was  issued 
directing  that  registers  on  vellum  should  be  kept  in 
every  parish  in  the  realm.  The  oldest  registers  of  this 
neighborhood  are  those  of  Tredington,  which  begin  in 
1541 ;  after  them  come  those  of  Halford,  beginning  in 
1545,  and  Shipston,  in  1572.  They  are  written  partly 
in  Latin  and  partly  in  English,  some  in  a  good  hand 
and  some  frightful  to  behold.  During  the  troublous 
times  of  the  Commonwealth  the  registers  as  well  as 
the  churches  were  in  great  danger  of  desecration. 
The  rector  of  Barcheston,  a  village  half  a  mile  from 
Shipston,  in  1647  wrote  in  his  register,  dating  from  1559, 
"  Digne  hoc  antiquum  perdet  quicunq  registrum,  filius 
appellatus  perditionis  sit "  ("  Whosoever  destroys  this 
ancient  register  will  rightly  be  called  the  son  of  per- 
dition ").  Mixed  up  with  the  ordinary  entries  occur 
notices  of  parochial  events  of  more  or  less  importance. 


THE    VILLAGE    ON  THE   STOUR.  37 

At  Shipston,  under  date  of  October  12,  1612,  we  find 
the  record,  "  Peter  Churchporch,  fond  in  ye  church- 
porch  at  Todnam,  was  baptized  at  Shipston,  and  had 
the  name  then  given  him,  Peter  Todnam,  alias  Church- 
porch."  The  following  entry  is  also  suggestive :  "  Eliza- 
beth Thornet,  widow,  was  buried  in  1695,  at  ye  upper 
end  of  the  highway  leading  from  ye  Custard  Lane, 
through  ye  piece  of  ground  commonly  called  ye  Horse 
Fair,  for  hanging  herself  ye  day  before ;  she  was  blind 
and  86  years  of  age."  The  old  law  directed  the  suicide 
to  be  buried  in  a  cross-road  with  a  stake  driven  through 
his  body,  and  a  finger-post  to  be  erected  to  mark  his 
grave  for  public  scorn ;  this  poor  blind  wretch,  weary 
of  life,  perhaps  abused  and  maltreated,  insane,  and  very 
likely  regarded  as  a  witch,  suffered  the  legal  penalty  of 
her  crime.  In  1678  the  statute  was  passed  enforcing  the 
burial  of  the  dead  in  woollen  shrouds  for  the  encourage- 
ment of  the  manufacturers,  and,  though  affidavits  had  to 
be  made  that  the  law  had  been  complied  with,  the  regis- 
ters show  that  it  was  easy  enough  to  evade  it  by  paying 
a  fine.  Even  now  the  people  always  lay  out  their  dead 
in  a  white  shroud  pure  as  the  robe  they  shall  wear  in 
the  kingdom  of  their  Lord,  with  the  face  upward,  in 
token  of  hope,  and  the  feet  to  the  east,  symbolical  of 
the  resurrection ;  and  though  they  bury  them  in  a  cof- 
fin, while  in  olden  time  they  were  commonly  put  simply 
in  the  grave,  they  have  not  yet  learned  the  horrible  and 
ghastly  word  "  casket."  Mention  is  frequently  made  of 
the  "  briefs,"  the  circular  letters  spoken  of  in  the  rubric 
after  the  Nicene  Creed.  These  briefs  were  issued  by 
the  bishop  or  government,  generally  in  alleviation  of 
losses  by  fire  or  flood  or  disease  of  cattle,  for  building 


38  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

of  churches,  the  redemption  of  slaves,  and  other  chari- 
table purposes.  The  sympathy  for  the  Protestants  of 
Switzerland  and  France  in  the  Reformation  times,  and 
for  the  latter  after  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes, 
was  great  in  this  neighborhood.  An  entry  of  April  6, 
1688,  states  that  in  the  town  of  Shipston  there  was 
gathered  toward  the  relief  of  the  French  Protestants 
the  sum  of  eighteen  shillings  and  tenpence.  Tidming- 
ton,  united  with  Shipston  under  the  one  rector,  though 
a  separate  parish  a  mile  and  a  half  distant,  in  1692  gath- 
ered for  the  same  purpose  one  pound  seven  shillings,  and 
in  1699,  "  for  the  poor  Protestant  Vaudois,  £0.  33.  od.," 
and  for  the  redemption  of  captives  three  pounds  ten 
shillings  and  nine  pence.  In  1723  the  same  register 
records  the  giving  of  sixpence  to  "  three  slaves  which 
was  abused  by  the  Turks."  For  their  souls'  health 
certain  evil  people  were  "  cited "  to  appear  before  the 
vicar-general  and  do  penance ;  offenders  at  Shipston  had 
to  go  to  the  rector  of  Tredington.  The  relief  of  beg- 
gars fell  largely  upon  the  churchwardens.  We  read  of 
alms  given  "  to  a  poor  sailor,"  "  to  a  lame  seaman,"  "  to 
a  man  that  was  drownded  out,"  "  to  a  man  who  was 
burnt  out,"  "  to  a  poor  man  that  was  robbed,"  "  to  two 
men  and  their  wives  and  six  children  that  were  robbed 
agoing  to  New  England,"  and  "  to  sum  seamen  that  ye 
ship  was  destroyed  by  a  tempest  at  sea  last  December, 
of  thunder  and  lightning."  The  registers  also  speak  of 
the  visitations  and  record  the  expenses  connected  there- 
with; thus,  in  1708,  at  Tredington,  "our  dinners"  cost 
two  shillings  and  "  extraordinaries "  two  shillings  and 
fourpence.  What  these  "extraordinaries"  were  can 
easily  be  surmised.  In  the  register  at  Solihull  are 


THE    VILLAGE    ON  THE   STOUR.  39 

these  curious  items,  under  date  of  1658:  "Paid  for 
making  a  cucking  stoole,  and  for  beere  at  the  draw- 
ing it  up  to  the  Crosse,  los.  4d. ;"  "  A  penniworth  of 
paper  for  ye  parishners ;"  "  To  W.  Stretch  to  stop  his 
mouth,  2s. ;"  "To  Widow  Bird  pitifully  complayning, 
is.;"  "To  a  woman  which  sat  in  the  churchyard  a 
great  while,  is.;"  and  "To  agoing  before  justice  St. 
Nicholas  with  the  young  people  which  would  not  go 
to  service,  is.  2d." 

In  the  Shipston  books  there  is  an  inventory,  made  in 
1638,  of  the  church  goods  and  furniture.  The  books 
enumerated  are  one  great  Bible,  two  Common  Prayers, 
Jewell's  Works,  Erasmus's  Paraphrase,  The  Book  of 
Homilies,  The  Constitutions,  Mustullus's  Works,  the 
register  books,  two  paper  books  to  write  account  of 
officers,  and  Edward  Pittway's  gift-books.  The  Pittways 
were  an  ancient  and  honorable  family  in  the  town ;  the 
first  burial  recorded  is  that  of  "Edward  Pitway,"  and  in 
1706  John  Pittway,  ironmonger,  bequeathed  lands  and 
tenements  out  of  which  four  pounds  a  year  was  to  be 
paid  to  the  minister  to  teach  six  poor  boys  to  "  write  a 
legible  hand  and  say  the  Church  Catechism,  with  the 
exposition  thereof,  without  book,  and  to  learn  two  or 
three  rules  in  arithmetic."  Besides  the  books,  the  church 
owned  a  surplice,  a  poor-box,  a  linen  tablecloth,  a  ladder 
and  two  pewter  flagons.  There  are  entries  of  expenses 
for  making  the  tablecloth  and  washing  the  surplice ;  also, 
in  1592,  for  repairing  one  of  the  bells.  It  would  appear 
that  the  clapper  of  this  bell  had  broken ;  the  clapper  had 
therefore  to  be  sent  to  Wotton  and  the  bell  to  be  taken 
down.  Items  are  given  "  for  drink  when  the  bell  was 
taken  down  "  and  "  for  drink  at  the  hanging  up  of  the 


40      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

bell."  "  Old  Herst "  was  paid  "  for  going  to  Brayles  for 
Tooley,"  and  Tooley  was  paid  "  for  the  hanging  up  of 
the  bell."  Then  "  grease  for  the  bells  "  was  bought,  and 
in  the  course  of  the  work  or  the  ensuing  festivities  "  a 
jug  of  the  goodwife  Wooley  was  lost,"  which  had  to  be 
paid  for.  In  October,  1695,  we  read,  "Memorandum, 
that  the  5  old  bells  were  new  cast  by  Mr.  Koon,  of 
Woodstock.  The  waight  was  34  cwt.  3  qrs.  10  Ibs.,  and 
to  have  ^18  for  casting  them,  some  of  this  money  col- 
lected by  subscription,  and  other  by  levy."  The  old 
bells  were  made  up  into  six,  and  the  six  still  ring  in  the 
same  ancient  tower.  A  curious  custom  has  held  its  own 
both  here  and  at  Barcheston — viz.,  the  tolling  of  a  bell 
at  the  end  of  the  Sunday-morning  service.  No  satisfac- 
tory reason  has  been  given  for  either  the  origin  or  the 
continuance  of  the  custom.  There  is  also  a  bell  rung  at 
Shipston  every  morning  at  five  o'clock  and  every  even- 
ing at  eight,  and  at  the  end  of  the  toll  the  day  of  the 
month  is  numbered.  The  common  opinion  is  that  many 
years  ago  a  gentleman  who  had  chanced  to  lose  his  way 
in  the  neighborhood  left  money  for  the  ringing  of  the 
bell.  In  1/39  the  item  is  given,  "  Rump  of  beef  for 
ringers  at  Christmas,  45.;"  the  great  Yuletide  is  still 
rung  in  as  in  the  days  of  yore.  In  1731  "  it  was  agreed 
upon  that  the  churchwardens,  overseers  of  the  poor  and 
the  constable  shall  hold  a  vestry  the  first  Sunday  in 
every  month  after  evening  prayer  and  bring  their  ac- 
counts to  be  examined."  The  first  year  after  death  is 
still  called  the  "  dead  year,"  and  in  the  parish  records  it 
is  termed  "  the  dead's  year,  according  to  the  custom  of 
the  manor."  Thus  a  bequest  is  made  to  a  person  for  his 


THE    VILLAGE    ON  THE  STOUR.  4! 

natural  life  and  for  the  dead's  year — that  is,  to  his  estate 
for  a  year  after  his  death. 

The  holding  of  a  vestry  on  Sunday  seems  to  indicate 
that  Puritan  ideas  concerning  the  Sabbath  did  not  pre- 
vail at  Shipston.  The  tendency  has  rather  been  to  a 
more  liberal  observance  of  the  day.  The  Puritans  imi- 
tated the  Jews  in  this  respect,  as  in  others.  The  rabbis 
were  excessive  in  their  reverence  for  the  day.  If  a  house 
were  burning,  one  could  save  one's  clothes  only  by  wear- 
ing them :  they  could  not  be  carried  out  except  by  suc- 
cessively putting  them  on.  If  a  hen  laid  an  egg  on  the 
Sabbath-day,  it  might  not  be  eaten,  because  she  had  no 
right  to  break  the  commandment.  Women  were  forbid- 
den to  look  into  the  glass  on  the  Sabbath,  because  they 
might  discover  a  white  hair  and  attempt  to  pull  it  out, 
which  would  be  a  grievous  sin.  One  was  not  allowed 
to  wear  false  teeth  on  the  Sabbath,  because  they  might 
fall  out  and  their  owner  be  tempted  to  pick  them  up  and 
put  them  back  or  carry  them.  So  the  Puritan,  partaking 
of  the  same  spirit,  held  that  to  do  any  work  on  that  day 
was  as  great  a  sin  as  murder  or  adultery.  He  was  not 
allowed  to  smile  or  to  kiss  his  wife  on  the  Sabbath.  To 
shave  or  to  cut  finger-nails  was  extreme  profligacy  and 
a  sure  sign  of  reprobation.  The  water  which  was  drawn 
from  the  well  on  Saturday  night  had  to  last  till  Monday 
morning.  Such  fine  distinctions  are  sometimes  awkward, 
as  an  old  story  tells  us.  In  1260  a  Jew  of  Tewkesbury 
fell  into  a  sink  on  the  Sabbath-day,  and  because  of  his 
reverence  for  that  day  he  would  not  suffer  himself  to  be 
drawn  out ;  on  Sunday  the  earl's  reverence  would  not 
allow  him  to  be  delivered ;  and  so  between  the  two  he 
died.  There  is  no  evidence  that  Shipston  ever  favored 


42  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

such  extreme  views,  or  that  the  people  objected  to  the 
Book  of  Sports.  They  were  dull,  but  they  were  not 
narrow. 

The  first  mention  of  Shipston  occurs  more  than  a 
thousand  years  ago.  It  was  probably  so  called  on  ac- 
count of  its  famous  and  extensive  sheep-markets,  noted 
as  ancient  by  Camden  and  still  among  the  largest  in  the 
kingdom.  At  the  present  day  the  local  pronunciation 
of  the  singular  of  the  word  "sheep"  is  "ship,"  and 
"  ton  "  is  the  common  Saxon  termination  for  the  home- 
stead of  the  yeoman,  simply  defended  by  a  quickset 
hedge,  or  "  tun."  We  may  picture  the  settlement  on  the 
Stour  amid  the  great  wilds  as  consisting  of  a  few  huts 
in  which  the  shepherds  lived  guarded  from  the  wolves 
of  the  forest  and  the  inroads  of  hostile  men — the  Wealas, 
or  even  other  tribes  of  their  own  race — by  thick  mounds 
of  trees  and  high  hedges  of  thorn.  They  fed  their  sheep 
in  the  rich  grass-yielding  "  opens,"  sheared  and  washed 
them  at  the  river,  sent  the  wool  and  the  mutton  away — 
perhaps  to  Chipping  Camden  or  Chipping  Norton,  or 
other  near  marts  where  people  resorted  to  "  ceapian," 
till  the  place  grew  large  enough  to  attract  traders  to 
itself — and  lived  a  life  of  primitive  simplicity.  Then  the 
night-silence  was  broken  by  the  howling  of  wild  beasts 
in  the  neighboring  woods  and  of  dogs  within  the  "  tun," 
and  from  the  distant  marshes  came  the  booming  of  the 
bittern  and  the  screeching  of  the  white  owl.  Day  fol- 
lowed day  with  its  monotonous  variations  incident  to 
such  pursuits  as  sheep-farming  and  to  a  life  in  such  sur- 
roundings. Rudely  clad,  roughly  housed  and  having 
little  intercourse  with  the  outside  world,  the  shepherds 
were  scarcely  less  wild  than  was  the  country  around  them. 


THE    VILLAGE    ON  THE  STOUR.  43 

In  their  cabins  the  one  room  served  for  all  the  purposes 
of  the  family.  Around  the  fire  in  the  middle  of  the 
earthen  floor  father,  mother  and  children  slept  at  night, 
the  ground  their  couch  and  sheepskins  their  covering. 
They  neither  washed  nor  undressed,  and  nearly  their 
only  approach  to  intellectual  life  was  in  the  time  between 
the  dying  of  the  sunlight  in  the  west  and  the  dying  of 
the  embers  on  the  hearth,  when  they  sang  rude  melodies, 
sipped  home-made  mead  and  propounded  such  riddles 
as  "  What  does  a  goose  do  when  standing  on  one  leg  ?" 
When  the  answer  came,  "  Holds  the  other  up,"  they  no 
doubt  laughed  that  full,  hearty  laugh  which  seems  ever 
to  have  been  characteristic  of  the  English.  They  ate 
four  meals  a  day  and  with  their  heads  covered.  Time 
was  measured,  the  day  by  the  sun  and  the  month  by  the 
moon.  Their  scavengers  were  kites.  In  the  Wolf-month, 
when  the  thick  fogs  and  the  chill  rain-winds  swept  over 
the  land  and  the  frost  hardened  the  ground  and  the  river, 
they  kept  much  at  home ;  but  in  the  bright  Weyd-month 
the  children  plucked  the  flowers,  the  women  repaired  the 
house  and  the  men  were  off  to  their  summer  toil.  They 
were  heathen  then ;  later  they  were  taught  to  carve  the 
cross  out  of  the  oak  from  which  they  had  shaped  the 
spear.  When  Offa,  "  Rex  Anglorum  sive  Merciorum 
potentissimus,"  reigned  (ante%Q2),  the  manor  of  Shipston 
was  granted  by  Ulhredus,  duke  of  the  Wiccians,  to  the 
priors  of  Worcester.  The  connection  has  never  been 
broken ;  at  the  Reformation  the  rights  of  the  priors  were 
taken  up  by  the  dean  and  chapter. 

The  prior  held  his  manorial  court  at  a  village  some 
two  miles  off,  called  Blackwell,  from  a  well  whose  water 
is  darkened  by  some  mineral  admixture.  It  was  once  a 


44  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

considerable  place,  having,  besides  other  buildings,  a 
chapel  dedicated  to  St.  Nicholas ;  but  at  one  period,  his- 
tory informs  us,  its  entire  population  consisted  of  six 
men  and  one  maid.  From  the  few  facts  recorded  we 
gather  that  the  rule  of  the  priors  was  very  arbitrary  and, 
owing  to  the  many  fines  exacted  from  the  unfortunate 
townsmen,  not  much  enjoyed.  The  latter  were  obliged 
to  have  their  corn  ground  at  a  high  rate  at  the  prior's 
mill,  to  pay  a  fine  to  every  new  prior,  and  a  penny — 
called  "  hedsilver  " — for  every  inhabitant  above  the  age 
of  twelve  years,  every  year  when  the  prior  held  his 
court  at  Blackwell.  About  the  year  1268,  Henry  III. 
granted  the  town  a  charter  for  the  holding  of  markets 
and  fairs  for  the  sale  of  cattle,  and  about  1405  the 
townsmen,  exasperated  beyond  all  endurance  by  the 
fines  imposed  on  them  by  the  priors,  broke  out  into 
open  revolt  and  rioting.  They  more  particularly  ob- 
jected to  the  payment  of  heriots,  a  fine  taken  out  of  a 
dead  man's  estate,  corresponding  somewhat  with  our 
modern  legacy-duty.  Several  of  the  leading  inhabitants 
went  to  Worcester  to  intercede  with  the  prior,  and  after 
much  delay  it  was  decided  that  on  the  death  of  a  tenant 
his  best  animal  should  go  to  the  prior  and  his  second 
best  to  the  rector  of  the  parish.  The  tenants  were  also 
required  to  spend  twenty  days  in  each  year  in  ploughing 
and  sowing  the  prior's  land ;  also  to  mow  four  days,  to 
winnow  four  days  and  to  carry  the  corn  from  the  manor 
to  Wethington.  For  every  beast  they  sold  they  paid  a 
penny — a  sum  equal  to  half  a  crown  of  present  money. 
Beyond  the  fact  that  in  the  reign  of  King  John  some 
dispute  arose  between  the  townspeople  and  the  rector 
of  Tredington  which  was  settled  only  by  an  appeal  to 


THE    VILLAGE    ON  THE  STOUR.  45 

Innocent  III.,  nothing  of  much  interest  is  recorded,  save 
the  perennial  quarrels  with  the  prior  of  Worcester,  till 
after  the  Reformation. 

During  the  eighteenth  century  the  town  was  several 
times  and  severely  visited  with  small-pox.  In  1731  it 
affected  523  persons,  of  whom  45  died;  and  in  1744, 
406  persons,  of  whom  48  died.  Under  date  of  1767  an 
eminent  physician  in  London  writes  concerning  Ships- 
ton:  "A  poor  vagabond  was  seen  in  the  streets  with 
the  small-pox  upon  him;  the  people,  frightened,  took  care 
to  have  him  carried  to  a  little  house  situated  upon  a  hill 
at  some  distance  from  the  town,  providing  him  with 
necessaries.  In  a  few  days  the  man  died ;  they  ordered 
him  to  be  buried  deep  in  the  ground,  and  the  house 
with  his  clothes  to  be  burnt.  The  wind,  being  pretty 
high,  blew  the  smoke  upon  the  houses  on  one  side  of 
the  town,  and  a  few  days  after  eight  persons  were  slain 
with  the  small-pox."  In  1772  a  subscription  was  col- 
lected to  pay  for  the  inoculation  of  every  poor  parish- 
ioner, and  for  one  hundred  and  fifty-seven  persons  the 
apothecary  was  paid  six  shillings  a  head.  When  the 
dread  of  this  dire  disease  passed  away  under  the  benign 
influence  of  Dr.  Jenner,  a  new  fear  took  its  place :  the 
French  became  a  greater  terror  than  the  variola.  Eng- 
land looked  on  aghast  at  the  great  Revolution  and  the 
victories  of  Bonaparte,  but,  though  the  alarm  was  great, 
the  country  remained  loyal  and  hopeful.  The  patriotic 
spirit  reached  Shipston,  and,  in  spite  of  the  heavy  and 
burdensome  taxation,  in  1798,  when  Nelson  destroyed 
the  French  fleet  at  the  Nile,  the  townsmen  made  a  vol- 
untary collection  of  over  sixty-one  pounds  to  assist  the 
government.  Some  gave  five  guineas,  and  some  gave 


46      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

twopence.  Then  they  formed  a  volunteer  corps,  but 
what  became  of  it  or  what  it  did  no  one  knows.  In 
1803  another  company  was  formed,  consisting  of  four 
officers  and  about  one  hundred  and  forty  men.  They 
agreed  to  pay  certain  fines  for  misconduct — e.  g.,  six- 
pence for  inattention,  a  shilling  for  drunkenness  and 
half  a  crown  for  fighting ;  from  which  we  infer  that  the 
Shipston  men  of  that  day  were  above  all  anxious  to 
suppress  their  weakness  for  pugilistic  enterprises.  Their 
colors  are  still  preserved,  and  are  occasionally  hoisted 
on  the  church-tower.  What  duty  this  corps  did  history 
has  not  recorded,  but  the  memory  of  the  noble  men 
who  volunteered  for  service  in  the  hour  of  their  coun- 
try's need  is  still  fragrant  in  the  minds  of  some. 

One  of  the  events  in  the  year  is  the  October  fair. 
The  picture  of  the  old  life  is  worthy  of  study.  Early  in 
the  morning  the  streets  are  thronged  with  people  from 
the  neighboring  villages,  with  farm  and  domestic  ser- 
vants and  itinerant  showmen.  Everything  assumes  a 
holiday  appearance:  shopkeepers  have  their  windows 
arrayed  with  the  most  tempting  attractions ;  fruit-stands 
and  toy-stalls  are  set  about  the  streets ;  the  inns  are 
busier  than  usually ;  hawkers  cry  their  wares ;  bands 
play,  and  everybody  is  awake  to  the  importance  of  the 
occasion.  Down  in  the  Shambles,  in  front  of  a  black- 
smith's shop  and  the  Crown  Inn,  a  huge  fireplace  is 
built,  before  which  an  ox  is  roasted  whole.  Possibly 
this  was  originally  a  gift  from  the  lords  of  the  manor, 
the  priors  of  Worcester,  but  it  is  now  subscribed  for  by 
the  people.  Everybody  tastes  the  ox,  the  slices  of 
which  are  sold  at  a  shilling  apiece.  In  the  High  street 
— that  undefinable  place  already  mentioned — are  the 


THE    VILLAGE    ON  TflE  STOUR.  47 

shows,  the  ubiquitous  and  ever-genuine  Tom  Thumb, 
the  original  fat  woman  and  the  real  red  man  from  the 
wilds  of  America.  Here  are  the  shooting-galleries,  where 
the  possibility  of  a  shilling  prize  is  offered  at  the  low 
price  of  one  penny ;  also  the  travelling  portrait-taker, 
who  will  perpetuate  any  physiognomy  for  a  mere  trifle  ; 
also  the  Cheap  John,  ever  stout  and  sturdy,  whose  dis- 
interestedness for  the  good  of  the  purchasing  public  is 
proverbial ;  also  the  dog-fancier,  with  his  best  specimens 
of  thoroughbreds.  For  twopence  you  can  get  your 
fortune  told  by  the  old  woman  sitting  on  yonder  door- 
step, and,  considering  the  outlay,  you  will  be  satisfied. 
This  broad-faced,  round-shouldered  youth  will  live  with 
you  as  ploughman,  shepherd,  groom,  or  anything  else 
you  wish,  at  fair  wages  and  plenty  to  eat  and  drink. 
You  can  take  your  choice ;  the  street  is  full  of  such,  all 
wearing  whipcord  in  their  hats  and  all  well  recom- 
mended. This  hiring  feature  of  the  fair  gives  it  the 
name  of  the  "  mop  " — or,  as  it  was  called  a  century  and 
a  half  since,  the  "  mapp  " — and  till  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon  farmers  and  laborers,  mistresses  and  maids, 
are  making,  sometimes  driving,  bargains.  The  mop  was 
a  great  attraction  in  bygone  days ;  an  old  advertisement 
of  1743  invites  the  public  to  come  to  the  hiring  of  ser- 
vants, "  where  all  gentlemen,  dealers  and  chapmen  may 
depend  upon  good  entertainment  and  encouragement." 
By  sunset  everybody  is  merry,  and  not  a  few  are  drunk. 
The  taverns  do  a  good  business  all  day,  and  there  are 
dinners  at  the  "  George,"  the  "  Bell,"  the  "  White  Horse  " 
and  the  smaller  hostelries.  Here  are  lads  and  lasses  arm 
in  arm,  light  and  gay;  here,  boys  on  the  lookout  for 
mischief;  there,  men  trying  to  walk  steadily  and  to  sing 


40  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

or  whistle,  but  the  goodly  potions  have  disabled  them 
from  doing  either.  Yonder  is  the  police-sergeant  wheel- 
ing home  one  of  his  constables  in  a  barrow,  and  followed 
by  an  admiring  throng  of  rag-tag  and  bob-tail.  Across 
the  way  are  two  young  men  indulging  in  the  supreme 
pleasure  of  a  prize-fight  and  surrounded  by  a  cheering 
crowd.  And  the  showmen  shout,  and  the  drums  and 
gongs  rattle,  and  the  blazing  paraffin-lights  hiss  and 
splutter,  and  children  blow  their  penny  trumpets,  tin 
whistles  and  horns,  and  the  people  laugh  and  talk,  till 
one  forgets  that  this  is  sleepy  and  old-fashioned  Ships- 
ton.  In  old  times  rougher  sports  prevailed.  The  fol- 
lowing advertisement  referring  to  this  October  "  roast " 
explains  itself: 

«  SHIPSTON-ON-STOWER. 

"On  Tuesday  the  I7th  of  October,  1783,  will  be  played  for  at  Back- 
swords, a  purse  of  Five  Guineas,  by  seven  or  nine  of  a  side.  If  no  sides 
appear  by  nine  o'clock  in  the  Forenoon,  Eight  Shillings  will  be  given  to 
each  man  who  breaks  a  head ;  Two  Shillings  and  Sixpence  to  each  man 
that  has  his  head  broken;  to  begin  playing  exactly  at  nine  o'clock." 

On  this  occasion  the  Shipston  men  suffered  severely 
at  the  hands  of  combatants  from  Wiltshire,  whom  they 
nicknamed  "Sawnees."  Down  to  within  the  memory 
of  some  now  living  bull-baiting  and  pigeon-shooting 
took  place  at  these  fairs,  and  cock-fighting  was  com- 
mon at  all  times. 

Other  festivals  were  kept  besides  this  one.  The  Fifth 
of  November  was  not  forgot.  Christmas  was  ushered 
in  with  the  merry  pealing  of  bells,  the  waits  and  carol- 
singers  ;  everybody  had  plum-pudding,  if  nothing  else. 
Some  there  were  who  thought  that  the  cattle  went  down 


THE    VILLAGE    ON  THE  STOUR.  49 

on  their  knees  and  the  ghosts  remained  in  their  tombs 
at  the  midnight  of  the  Nativity.  Strange  life!  The 
narrow,  irregular  streets  do  not  belong  to  the  common, 
every-day  world.  That  house  in  Church  street  with  the 
little  bow-windows  was  once  the  post-office.  Up  this 
alley  is  a  small  dissenting  chapel  where  the  remnant 
of  Israel  comfort  themselves  with  invectives  against 
their  neighbors.  This  dull,  odd-looking  building  is 
the  Quakers'  meeting-house;  only  a  few  Friends  re- 
main, but  they  wear  drab  and  broad  brims  and  are 
still  very  good  folks.  That  spruce  youth  with  the 
white  hat  strutting  down  toward  the  mill  is  a  visitor 
— perhaps  from  Birmingham.  He  is  well  dressed  and 
walks  swinging  his  cane  with  an  air  of  superiority 
and  contempt.  He  looks  down  upon  place,  people  and 
everything.  The  cobble  sidewalks,  of  which  the  natives 
are  justly  proud — so  proud,  indeed,  that  for  fear  of  wear- 
ing them  out  they  walk  in  the  middle  of  the  street — he 
regards  as  unworthy  of  scorn.  He  is — and  he  knows 
it — a  stranger  to  this  strange  world,  and  in  days  when 
sawmills  abound  laughs  heartily  at  the  sight  of  the  old- 
fashioned  sawyer  standing  on  a  log  over  a  pit.  But  let 
him  go,  and  look  at  the  people  themselves.  Here  is 
your  wagoner  in  his  smock-frock,  and  here  your  artisan 
in  his  corduroy  breeches  and  rough-spun  jacket,  and 
here  a  gentleman  dressed  some  years  behind  the  times. 
The  parson  with  his  white  necktie  and  black  frock-coat 
is  an  incongruity  in  a  place  where  everything  suggests 
the  cassocked  priest  or  the  cowled  monk.  The  carpen- 
ter, across  the  way,  with  the  flag  basket  of  tools  on 
his  back,  moving  along  as  though  life  had  no  end,  was 
once  the  parish  clerk  and  the  parson's  right-hand  man. 


5O      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

The  blacksmith,  standing  by  that  old  broken-down 
wagon,  is  the  great  man  in  the  Baptist  chapel,  and  he 
will  tell  you  with  some  pride  that  his  chapel  is  "  gen- 
eral "  and  not  "  particular  " — a  distinction  of  great  con- 
sequence. The  most  important  people  of  the  place  are 
the  shopkeepers — a  highly-respectable  and  intelligent 
class  whose  dignity  appears  to  best  advantage  in  a  gig, 
and  whose  obsequiousness  exceeds  that  of  the  ordinary 
shopkeeper  elsewhere  as  the  humility  of  a  grasshopper 
exceeds  in  loveliness  the  pride  of  a  gnat.  Society  is 
rather  select  and  commendably  exclusive,  but  good 
manners  and  courtesy  are  not  so  general  as  one  might 
judge  from  the  pretensions.  Two  things  most  people  do 
on  Sunday :  they  go  to  church  or  chapel,  and  they  take 
their  dinner  to  the  bakehouse.  You  may  see  a  man  on 
a  Sabbath  morning,  just  before  the  bells  begin  to  ring 
for  service,  carrying  a  shallow  tin  pan  with  a  bit  of  meat 
in  the  middle  surrounded  with  batter-pudding  or  peeled 
potatoes.  This  he  leaves  at  the  baker's,  and  then,  taking 
a  turn  around  and  looking  as  innocent  and  unconscious 
as  if  he  had  done  a  thing  no  one  else  did  or  saw  him  do, 
he  starts  off  for  church,  and,  though  he  makes  little  and 
gets  still  less  out  of  the  sermon,  he  sings  his  hymns  and 
says  his  prayers  with  a  devotion  to  duty  highly  com- 
mendable. Coming  out,  he  slips  off  for  his  dinner,  and 
carries  it  home  smoking  hot.  And  then — the  only  time 
in  the  week — one  of  his  boys  says  grace,  and  all  set  to 
with  a  relish.  Probably  half  the  people  in  the  place  go 
through  this  programme  every  Sunday.  I  believe  it  is 
not  considered  the  right  thing  to  ask  a  blessing  except 
at  this  meal ;  the  others  are  such  that  it  is  not  worth 
while  to  say  anything  about  them.  Ruddy  cheeks,  stal- 


THE    VILLAGE    ON  THE   STOUK.  5 1 

wart  limbs  and  stout  forms  abound,  and  testify  to  the 
healthfulness  of  the  place.  The  death-rate  is  low — about 
fourteen  per  thousand.  For  a  picture  of  rugged  beauty 
see  these  four  girls,  evidently  sisters.  They  appear  as 
fresh  as  the  field-daisies  in  the  early  morning  and  as 
gay  as  the  crickets  that  chirp  in  the  kitchen.  Doubt- 
less they  can  both  thump  the  piano  and  churn  butter, 
play  croquet  and  knit  stockings ;  and,  though  they  may 
at  night  stick  a  pin  through  the  wick  of  the  candle  to 
judge  by  its  remaining  in  or  falling  out  if  their  lover 
will  keep  true,  they  look  like  sensible  and  quick-witted 
maidens. 


CHAPTER   III. 

Region  ^ountr 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighboring  hill, 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made." 

THE  country  around  Shipston-on-Stour  is  beautifully 
undulating,  its  fertile  hills  and  dales  producing  rich 
grain-harvests  and  affording  abundant  pasture  for  nu- 
merous flocks  and  herds.  The  little  river  on  the  western 
bank  of  which  the  town  is  built  is  as  pretty  and  dainty 
a  stream  as  could  be  found  anywhere.  Its  name  is  not 
unique :  there  is  a  "  Stour "  in  Dorset,  Suffolk,  Cam- 
bridge and  Kent  as  well  as  in  Warwickshire.  The 
word  is  derived  from  the  Saxon  styrian,  to  "  stir "  or 
"  move,"  and  probably  alludes  to  its  rapid  course— 
"  the  swift  river."  It  rises  in  Oxfordshire,  and  from 
the  Traitor's  Ford,  where  it  enters  the  county  of  War- 
wick, to  Milcote,  below  Stratford,  where  it  joins  the 
Avon,  is,  owing  to  its  winding  course,  about  thirty 
miles  long,  though  the  distance  as  the  crow  flies  is  not 
more  than  fifteen.  Busily  it  turns  the  millwheel  at  Bur- 
mington,  flows  deeply  and  quietly  past  Tidmington  and 
Willington,  turns  the  wheel  again  at  Barcheston,  gathers 
its  strength  for  the  mill  at  Shipston,  and  then  runs 

52 


THE  REGION  ROUND  ABOUT.  53 

laughingly  off  in  its  childish  glee  till  it  broadens  itself 
as  it  flows  by  Honington,  and  afterward,  as  though 
half  ashamed  of  its  attempt  at  stateliness,  modestly 
narrows  for  its  duty  again  at  Tredington  and  Harford. 
Bright  green  meadows  and  banks  where  wild  flowers 
grow  in  rich  profusion  border  it  on  either  side ;  willows 
cast  their  shadows  upon  its  sparkling  waters ;  here  and 
there  in  a  deep  bend  are  tall  flags  and  nodding  rushes 
and  broad-leafed  lilies,  and  many  are  the  quiet  nooks 
where  the  pike  and  the  perch  have  their  haunt.  In  this 
brook  the  angler  finds  his  patience  and  skill  rewarded, 
the  oarsman  discovers  water  deep  and  steady  enough 
for  his  skiff,  and  the  schoolboy  enjoys  his  swim  and 
catches  his  minnows  unmolested — a  merry,  light-hearted 
stream  in  summer,  but  when  swollen  by  the  floods  of 
autumn  and  spring  angry  and  turbulent.  Then  the 
yellow,  foaming  waters  rush  fiercely  through  the  val- 
ley, sweeping  across  the  fields  with  impetuous  haste 
and  passionate  violence,  carrying  away  gates,  hurdles, 
fences,  bridges,  and  whatever  else  may  stand  in  the 
way,  and  exciting  astonishment  in  every  breast.  The 
roads  near  the  brook  are  impassable  at  such  times,  and 
the  villagers  have  perforce  to  stay  at  home.  Traditions 
of  hairbreath  escapes  and  of  extraordinary  floods,  as 
well  as  of  damages  and  deaths  from  that  cause,  are  as 
common  as  are  stories  of  immense  beasts  fattened  in  the 
meadow  and  of  heavy  fish  caught  in  the  brook.  The 
dimensions  of  eels  which  have  been  found  in  Fletcher's 
Pool  and  the  weight  of  cows  which  have  been  fed  at 
Wolford  are  proofs  of  the  fertility  of  both  country  and 
river  and  of  the  salubrity  of  air  and  water. 

There  are  fishermen  hereabouts — few  in  number,  but 


54  THE  HEART  OF  ME  ERIE   ENGLAND. 

expert  in  their  art.  Most  villages  near  the  river  have 
their  Izaak  Walton — an  individual,  as  a  rule,  more  qual- 
ified to  quaff  ale  or  cider  than  to  write  the  Lives  of 
divines  or  such  a  book  as  the  Compleat  Angler.  He  is 
frequently  a  decayed  tradesman  whose  love  for  sport  has 
injured  his  business.  Here  is  such  a  one  on  his  way 
over  the  mill-bridge.  He  is  accompanied  by  a  boy  who 
carries  his  can  of  bait  and  looks  as  if  he  had  reached  the 
acme  of  honor.  Their  path  lies  across  the  meadows. 
Let  us  follow  them.  The  birds  and  butterflies  flit  hither 
and  thither ;  the  trees  and  flowers  and  green  sod  are 
fresh  and  bright.  Now  and  then  they  surprise  a  squirrel 
or  a  rabbit  in  the  long  wayside  grass,  but  quicker  than 
the  boy  can  run  it  disappears  in  the  blackberry-  or  hazel- 
bushes  or  in  the  deep  burrows.  The  contented  murmur 
of  the  heavily-laden  bee  as  she  speeds  her  way  home 
from  the  honey-sweetened  blossoms  of  the  pimpernel, 
the  agrimony  or  the  wood-betony ;  the  quiet,  and  yet 
striking,  whistle  of  the  chiff-chaff;  the  cries  of  the  shep- 
herds and  the  anxious  bleating  of  the  sheep  borne  on 
the  gentle  breeze  from  far  up  the  river,  where  the  annual 
washing  and  shearing  is  being  performed;  the  singing 
and  prattle  of  village  children  rambling  in  the  fields  or 
by  the  hedgerows  in  search  of  flowers  or  fledglings, — 
these  are  among  the  many  sounds  which  fall  upon  their 
ears.  An  hour's  walk,  and  they  are  on  the  banks  of  the 
brook.  The  high  trees  cast  their  shadows  almost  to  the 
other  side  of  the  bright,  translucent  waters,  and  in  the 
quiet  deep  corner  the  fisherman  prepares  to  cast  his  line. 
In  silence  he  makes  ready  his  fishing-tackle,  fastening  a 
well-scoured  worm  on  the  hook,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
the  white-and-green-striped  float  is  bobbing  on  the  tiny 


THE  REGION  ROUND  ABOUT.  $5 

wavelets.  The  boy  pulls  up  what  he  calls  butter  reeds 
and  eats  the  soft  end.  There  is  no  bite ;  only  once  in 
the  first  quarter  of  an  hour  is  there  the  sign  of  one,  and 
then  it  is  only  a  gudgeon  nibbling,  and  as  he  turns  away 
he  passes  down  the  capacious  gullet  of  a  monstrous  luce 
at  that  moment  looking  around  for  his  supper.  "  Never 
waste  a  good  bait  on  a  poor  fish,"  the  angler  remarks ; 
and  a  volume  could  scarcely  impart  more  wisdom.  The 
line  is  drawn  out,  fresh  tackle  is  prepared,  a  frog  is  put 
on  the  hook  even  as  though  he  loved  him,  and  the  baited 
barb  is  dropped  silently  into  the  stream.  How  still  is 
everything  in  that  riverside  corner !  Even  the  sobbing 
brook  is  quiet  and  the  sighing  wind  is  hushed.  Beneath 
the  thick  overhanging  boughs  of  the  willows  are  clouds 
of  swarming  gnats  and  flies ;  once  in  a  while  a  brilliant- 
ly-colored dragon-fly  whizzes  past ;  now  a  rat  starts  to 
swim  across  the  brook,  but  disappears  in  midstream,  no 
doubt  seized  and  swallowed  by  some  monster  of  the 
deep;  yonder  a  bright-hued  kingfisher  skims  the  sur- 
face of  the  water ;  and  the  silence  is  only  made  more  in- 
tense by  the  sound  of  falling  water  in  the  distance  and 
the  occasional  tapping  of  the  woodpecker  in  the  thicket. 
How  intently  both  man  and  boy  watch  at  their  shadows' 
length  from  the  brink !  They  speak  only  in  whispers. 
They  grow  pale  and  nervous  with  excitement.  At  last ! 
Hush !  There  is  a  bite,  a  tug,  and  the  line  is  whirling 
and  rattling  over  the  reel,  and  across  the  water  the  thin, 
gleaming  foam  is  cast  up  as  the  captured  fish  rushes  to 
its  lair.  By  and  by  the  line  is  drawn  in,  and  soon  on  the 
green  sward  lies  a  splendid  jack,  his  sides  glittering  in 
the  sunshine  and  his  eyes  darting  angry  glances.  Pike 
thirty-two  inches  in  length  and  weighing  eight  and  nine 


56       THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

pounds  have  of  late  years  been  pulled  out  of  the  Stour. 
When  the  man  returns  to  town,  he  will  sell  his  fish  and 
have  a  pint  or  two  of  extra  stout  on  his  luck. 

The  scenery  around  Shipston,  though  not  romantic,  is 
picturesque  and  pleasing.  There  are  low  swelling  hills 
and  broad  smiling  plains  where  in  the  spring  meadow, 
field  and  copse  are  clothed  in  vesture  of  living  green, 
and  in  the  autumn  in  robes  of  red  and  gray  and  brown. 
Standing  on  one  of  the  many  rising  grounds,  the  spec- 
tator beholds  the  country  rolling  in  waves  of  quiet, 
happy  beauty.  Farms  and  hamlets  nestling  among  the 
trees ;  roads  running  hither  and  thither,  now  across  open 
fields,  and  now  between  high  hedges  where  grow  the 
crab  and  the  may,  here  through  the  greenwood,  and 
there  winding  up  the  hillside ;  church-towers  and  spires 
rising  from  the  heart  of  some  rural  Eden — perhaps  in  a 
valley-depth  of  charming  grace,  perhaps  on  an  elevation 
of  commanding  loveliness;  quaint,  restful,  homelike 
mansions  peeping  out  of  sylvan  retreats  and  surrounded 
by  wide  parks  within  whose  glades  and  beneath  whose 
broad-spreading  oaks  feed  the  antlered  deer  and  the 
striped  Alderney  cattle, — such  are  among  the  objects 
which  attract  his  attention  and  excite  his  admiration. 
The  views  from  Brailes  Hill  and  from  Tredington  Hill 
are  for  gentle,  suggestive  beauty  and  exquisite  natural 
charm  all  that  can  be  desired,  while  from  Edgehill,  a 
little  out  of  sight  of  Shipston,  is  a  landscape  which  is 
unrivalled  in  England  and  unexcelled  in  the  world. 

Travel  in  the  olden  time  was  a  very  different  affair 
from  travel  in  the  nineteenth  century.  Not  only  was 
the  railway  not  invented,  but  the  roads  were  neither 
good  nor  safe  and  the  conveyances  were  unwieldy  and 


THE   REGION  ROUND  ABOUT.  57 

uncomfortable.  In  rainy  weather  no  vehicle  could  be 
dragged  through  the  deep  mud ;  even  on  horseback  the 
journey  was  not  easy,  while  on  foot  it  was  tiring  and 
difficult.  Deep  rivers  had  bridges  over  them,  but  shal- 
low streams  were  forded  except  in  time  of  flood,  when 
the  passage  was  impossible.  Every  manor  or  parish  was 
obliged  to  keep  its  own  roads  in  repair,  but  no  one  saw 
that  the  work  was  done,  and  parsimonious  squires  and 
vestries  therefore  did  as  little  as  possible.  In  the  Middle 
Ages  people  left  money  for  the  repairing  and  making  of 
highways,  and  they  who  did  so — even  later  by  the  Re- 
formers themselves — were  esteemed  to  have  done  much 
to  ensure  their  salvation.  But  mud,  slush  and  swollen 
streams  in  rainy  weather  and  unimaginable  depths  of 
sand  and  dust  in  dry  weather  were  not  the  only  incon- 
veniences. The  danger  from  highwaymen  was  ever 
present,  and  centuries  passed  before  such  robbery  was 
suppressed.  In  one  age  it  was  the  retainers  and  servants 
of  the  baron  through  whose  estate  the  road  ran  that 
sought  to  lighten  the  burden  of  the  stranger :  perchance 
the  baron  himself  helped  in  the  work ;  then  outlaws  and 
professional  bandits  did  the  same  thing ;  and  thus  from 
time  immemorial  till  near  our  own  day  the  Jack  Shep- 
pards  and  Dick  Turpins  levied  mail  of  the  passers-by. 
In  this  way  the  men  of  Sherwood,  whom  romance  has 
made  virtuous,  got  their  wealth  and  made  merry,  and, 
though  we  are  told  that  the  brave  Robin  spared  the  poor 
and  lay  in  wait  only  for  rich  abbots  and  wealthy  mer- 
chants, there  is  too  strong  a  suspicion  of  business  about 
this  discrimination  to  suffer  one  to  think  much  of  his 
great-heartedness.  Down  in  secluded  hollows  in  the 
forest  or  the  glen  or  by  the  stream  was  done  the  deed 


58       THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

which  made  even  strong  men  dread  travelling  and  made 
women  shiver  with  fear.  Occasionally  the  robbery  was 
committed  in  gentler  and  more  legal  form.  Heavy  toll 
was  exacted  for  crossing  a  bridge  or  passing  through  a 
town  or  by  a  castle,  or  a  still  heavier  fine  for  having  in- 
curred the  suspicion  of  being  a  spy  or  a  foe.  As  a  man 
cannot  help  other  people's  suspicions,  and  as  there  was 
no  available  appeal  from  the  bench  of  country  justice, 
the  traveller  was  lucky  if  he  escaped  with  half  his  goods 
and  less  than  a  day  in  the  stocks.  Dangers  such  as 
these  made  it  necessary  for  travellers  to  unite  in  com- 
panies large  enough  for  self-defence,  and  every  wise  man 
before  he  left  his  own  roof-tree  for  a  distance  paid  his 
debts,  bade  farewell  to  his  friends  and  disposed  of  his 
family  and  property  with  far  more  care  than  is  displayed 
in  these  degenerate  days  by  many  who  are  on  the  eve  of 
taking  their  journey  to  that  bourne  from  whence  no  trav- 
eller returns.  As  an  illustration  of  the  perils  of  the  road 
the  following  from  a  newspaper  presumably  of  about  the 
year  1770  is  interesting :  "  On  Thursday  night  about 
eight  o'clock  Mr.  Thomas  Pratt,  farmer  and  corn-dealer, 
of  Shipston,  was  stopped  between  Newbold  and  Tred- 
ington,  on  his  return  from  Stratford,  by  a  footpad,  who 
rushed  from  the  roadside  and  knocked  him  off  his  horse 
by  striking  him  several  times  with  a  hedge-stake  or 
heavy  bludgeon.  The  villain  then  knelt  on  Mr.  Pratt's 
breast  and  took  from  him  a  pocket-book  containing  Strat- 
ford bank-bills  to  the  amount  of  £99.  Mr.  Pratt  was 
found  lying  on  the  ground  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
afterward  very  much  cut  and  bruised  about  the  head,  two 
of  his  teeth  having  been  knocked  out  by  the  blows.  The 


THE  REGION  ROUND  ABOUT.  59 

robber  was  a  stout,  lusty  man."     There  is  no  record  of 
his  capture. 

Travel  a  long  way  back  was  done  mostly  on  horseback 
or  on  foot,  though  there  were  wagons  and  carts  used  for 
the  purpose.  The  first  coach  seen  in  England  was  about 
the  year  1553,  and  another  hundred  and  twenty  years 
passed  before  stage-coaches  began  to  run ;  they  were  not 
received  with  much  favor.  In  1673  a  treatise  was  published 
in  London  by  "  A  Lover  of  his  Country,  and  Well-wisher 
to  the  Prosperity  both  of  the  King  and  Kingdoms,"  in 
which  were  used  many  elaborate  arguments  and  violent 
tirades  against  them.  "  These  coaches  and  caravans," 
said  the  writer,  "  are  one  of  the  greatest  mischiefs  that 
hath  happened  of  late  years  to  the  kingdom,  mischiev- 
ous to  the  publick,  destructive  to  trade,  and  prejudicial 
to  lands."  He  laments  the  decay  of  good  horsemanship 
which  would  follow  if  everybody  rode  to  London  in  a 
coach.  He  calculates  that  a  stage-coach  from  York, 
Chester  or  Exeter  would  have  forty  horses  on  the  jour- 
ney to  the  capital  and  carry  eighteen  passengers  a  week, 
In  the  whole  year  it  would  carry  about  eighteen  hundred 
and  seventy-two.  Supposing  they  were  returning  pas- 
sengers, there  would  be  nine  hundred  and  thirty-six,  and 
for  these  forty  horses  would  be  sufficient ;  but  if  people 
travelled  in  the  good  old-fashioned  way,  then  at  least 
five  hundred  horses  would  be  required  for  this  work. 
The  use  of  so  many  horses  would  give  employment  to 
many  who  were  by  the  stage-coach  thrown  out  of  work, 
such  as  cloth-workers,  drapers,  tailors,  saddlers,  tanners, 
curriers,  shoemakers,  spurriers,  lorimers  and  fellmakers. 
The  inns  also  suffer,  for  the  stage-coach  stops  at  only  a 
few;  but  when  gentlemen  travelled  on  horseback,  ac- 


60  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

companied,  as  they  usually  were,  by  three  or  four  ser- 
vants, they  stopped  at  any  and  as  often  as  they  liked, 
and  thus  encouraged  trade.  Farmers  will  be  ruined,  he 
says,  by  the  stage-coach;  for  how  can  they  dispose  of 
their  hay,  straw  and  horse-corn  ?  Moreover,  the  influ- 
ence on  health  would  be  bad :  men  called  out  of  their 
beds  before  daylight,  hurried  from  place  to  place  till  far 
on  into  the  night,  in  the  summer  stifled  with  heat  and 
choked  with  dust,  in  the  winter  starving  and  freezing 
with  cold  or  choked  with  filthy  fog,  obliged  to  ride  all 
day  with  strangers  and  with  sick,  ancient  and  diseased 
persons  and  young  children  crying,  poisoned  with  fetid 
breaths  and  crippled  by  the  crowd  of  boxes  and  bundles. 
Besides  all  these  troubles,  there  were  the  accidents  aris- 
ing from  rotten  coaches  and  foul  roads.  In  short,  the 
writer  is  fully  convinced  that  if  stage-coach  travelling 
becomes  popular  the  country  will  go  to  ruin.  Had  he 
lived  to  see  the  railway,  he  would  have  been  bereft  of 
his  senses.  Had  he  lived  to  see  the  day  when  gallows 
should  not  be  erected  by  the  highway,  nor  suicides 
buried  in  the  cross-roads,  nor  ghosts  haunt  the  uncanny 
corners,  he  would  have  given  up  his  spirit  in  despair. 

The  roads  around  Shipston  are  interesting.  The  Foss- 
way,  an  ancient  Roman  thoroughfare  running  in  an  al- 
most straight  line  across  the  country  from  Lincoln  to 
Bath,  passes  the  town  to  the  north-west  at  a  distance  of 
two  or  three  miles.  It  is  a  well-kept  though  rather  un- 
frequented road.  Once  in  a  while  the  pedestrian  meets 
a  gig  or  a  wagon,  but  one  might  go  from  the  cross-roads 
between  Tredington  and  Newbold  to  Stretton  and  see  no 
one.  In  the  hedges  dog-roses  grow  in  early  summer 
and  large  luscious  blackberries  in  the  autumn.  Birds 


THE  REGION  ROUND  ABOUT.  6 1 

and  ploughboys  here  as  elsewhere  whistle  and  sing  with 
varying  sweetness  and  strength ;  the  "  Tally-ho  !"  of  the 
huntsman,  the  baying  of  the  hounds  and  the  sharp  crack 
of  the  whip  are  sometimes  heard,  as  are  also  the  lowing 
of  cattle,  the  bleating  of  flocks  and  the  cries  and  shouts 
of  laborers ;  but  the  impression  one  has  in  traversing 
the  Fossway — so  far,  at  least,  as  man  is  concerned — is 
that  of  loneliness  and  lifelessness.  It  was  a  busy  road 
when  Roman  legions  moved  through  the  country ;  now 
it  is  the  retreat  of  the  health-seeker,  the  lover  and  the 
antiquary. 

There  is  a  characteristic  lane  running  from  Tysoe  by 
Tredington,  Honington  and  Barcheston  to  Wellington. 
Such  roads  are  peculiarly  English.  In  places  the  grass 
grows  from  hedge  to  hedge.  A  little  beyond  Honington 
it  threads  its  way  through  a  long  avenue  of  tall,  stately 
elms.  Near  Barcheston  it  crosses  an  open  field  on  a 
rising  ground  from  which  a  good  view  of  Shipston  may 
be  had — the  still  place  with  its  square  church-tower 
snug  down  in  the  hollow.  At  Barcheston  one  can  turn 
aside  to  the  village,  consisting  of  an  ancient  church,  the 
parsonage,  a  mill,  a  farmhouse,  and  possibly  two  cottages, 
and  take  a  footpath  across  the  fields  to  Wellington — a 
walk  almost  as  pleasant  as  the  one  from  Tredington  to 
Blackwell  by  the  high  hedge. 

The  turnpike-roads  are,  of  course,  somewhat  busier, 
but  scarcely  less  attractive.  There  are  footpaths  by  the 
side  of  the  way,  hedges  and  trees  for  shade  and  here  and 
there  a  rustic  seat  where  the  tired  traveller  may  sit  and 
rest.  The  ride  from  Shipston  to  Stratford  is  delightful, 
and,  indeed,  one  could  walk  the  ten  miles  without  noti- 
cing the  distance,  so  velvety  the  turf,  so  firm  the  path,  so 


62      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

charming  the  country.  That  to  Banbury  is  almost  as 
pleasant ;  the  one  to  Moreton-in-the-Marsh,  wilder  and 
more  secluded ;  and  that  to  Chipping  Norton,  more  ro- 
mantic. This  last-named  road  leads  by  the  new  ceme- 
tery, the  ancient  Tidmington  and  the  once-famous  but 
now  deserted  hostelry  at  Chapel-House,  some  ten  miles 
from  Shipston. 

The  district  is  dotted  with  villages  and  hamlets,  many 
of  them  small  and  secluded,  but  all  ancient  and  interest- 
ing. A  few  minutes'  walk  over  the  mill-bridge  and 
across  the  meadows  brings  one  to  Barcheston — or  Bar- 
son,  as  it  was  anciently,  and  is  still  locally,  pronounced. 
In  Henry  IV.,  Part  II.,  Act  V.,  Scene  3,  we  read  of 
"  Goodman  Puff  of  Barson,"  which  some  have  thought 
was  a  corruption  of  Barton,  the  village  on  the  Heath, 
but  which  others — perhaps  more  correctly — have  iden- 
tified with  this  place.  It  is  of  great  antiquity,  and  was 
once  of  sufficient  importance  to  give  its  name  to  the 
hundred  to  which  it  belonged.  In  Doomsday  the  place 
is  called  Berricestone.  In  the  reign  of  Henry  VII.  a 
wealthy  merchant,  William  Willington  by  name,  pulled 
down  the  few  houses  which  the  village  then  contained 
and  built  a  spacious  mansion,  turning  over  five  hundred 
acres  of  the  land  into  a  park.  He  died  in  1563,  and  in 
a  small  chapel  of  the  parish  church  he  and  his  wife  lie 
in  effigy  on  an  altar-tomb.  The  monument  has  been 
much  mutilated.  The  little  church,  dedicated  to  St. 
Martin,  was  built  in  1281.  It  is  of  Early  English  style 
and  contains  some  brasses,  an  ancient  font,  an  old  black- 
lettered  copy  of  Erasmus's  Paraphrases — which  was  for- 
merly chained  to  the  bench — and  in  the  tower  a  priest's 
chamber.  This  is  said  to  be  a  good  specimen  of  the 


THE   REGION  ROUND  ABOUT.  63 

domus  inchtsi.  Towers  were  once  frequently  used  for 
residence.  What  a  weird  sort  of  home  I  Jackdaws 
chattering  among  the  bells,  ghosts  lurking  in  the  dark 
corners,  the  loneliness  calling  up  legends  and  creating 
fancies  of  soul-subduing  and  mind-bewildering  power, 
and  the  wind,  as  it  swept  against  the  buttressed  walls 
and  through  the  narrow  loopholes,  now  sobbing  and 
sighing  like  poor  souls  in  agony  and  now  roaring  and 
raging,  furious  as  the  storm-waves  of  the  sea  or  the 
shrieks  of  despairing  demons !  Dismal,  dull,  melan- 
choly !  There  are  three  bells,  which  are  popularly  sup- 
posed to  ring  this  melody  as  they  chime  for  service : 

"  <  Long-tailed  sow, 
Where  be'st  going  ?' 
'  To  th'  bean-mow.' 
'  May  I  go  wi'  thee  ?' 
•No;  not  now.' " 

The  tower  leans  perceptibly.  On  the  south  side  of  the 
church  is  a  curious  spout — two  arms  extended  holding 
a  bucket  or  tub  to  catch  the  water.  The  building  has 
accommodation  for  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  people, 
and  a  whisper  can  be  heard  in  it  from  one  end  to  the 
other.  Here  survives  the  time-honored  parish  clerk,  a 
worthy  man  who  for  many  years  has  rung  the  bells, 
dusted  the  pews,  waited  upon  the  parson  and  led  the 
choir.  Some  of  his  honors  have  been  taken  away : 
there  was  once  a  time  when  the  parish  clerk  read  the 
first  lesson  and  gave  out  the  psalm. 

The  greater  part  of  the  congregation  live  at  a  hamlet 
about  a  mile  across  the  fields  from  the  church.  The 
intervening  ground  was  in  the  park,  long  since  broken 

5 


64  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

up,  and  to  the  place  where  the  villagers  were  removed 
William  Wellington  gave  his  own  name.  A  simple 
place  is  that  Willington,  without  either  a  public-house 
or  a  dissenter.  A  few  cottages  scattered  along  the  ir- 
regularly-laid-out  lanes,  in  which  shepherds,  carters  and 
farm-laborers  live,  a  little  shop  where  a  few  necessaries, 
such  as  needles  and  thread,  sugar  and  soap,  can  be 
bought,  a  farmhouse, — that  is  all.  The  place  is  health- 
ful: there  is  no  excitement  to  injure  the  inhabitants.  The 
geese  eating  the  grass  by  the  roadside  in  front  of  the 
houses  take  their  time  and  scarcely  notice  the  passers- 
by.  The  pigs  and  the  dogs  grow  fat  and  indolent  in 
no  time.  The  old  folks  take  snuff  and  drink  small  beer 
and  sit  for  hours  in  solemn  vacuity  of  thought.  When 
the  annual  wake  is  held,  the  people  dress  in  their  gayest 
and  best,  a  fiddler  from  Shipston  scrapes  music  for  the 
dancers  and  everybody  makes  merry.  At  Christmas 
most  of  the  natives  have  a  bit  of  roast  beef  and  a 
bouncing  plum-pudding  of  approved  weight  and  color ; 
at  Easter,  a  chine  of  bacon — perhaps  a  survival  of  the 
old  custom  of  eating  pork  at  that  season  to  show  con- 
tempt for  the  Jews.  Long  ago  the  villagers  went  to  the 
bull-baitings  and  cock-fights  at  Shipston,  and  some  of 
the  ancients  will  justify  the  former  sport  on  the  ground 
that  baiting  made  the  bull's  flesh  wholesome.  An  old 
pastime  in  this  county  was  the  "  grinning-match."  In  a 
newspaper  of  171 1  it  is  said  that  the  Warwickshire  men 
were  as  famous  for  their  grins  as  the  Kentish  men  were 
for  their  tails.  Grinning  is  better  than  crying,  and  at 
these  matches  a  substantial  prize  was  given  to  the  best 
competing  grinner.  Whistling  in  unison  was  also  prac- 
tised, but  the  tendency  to  laugh  at  a  row  of  screwed-up 


THE  REGION  ROUND  ABOUT.  65 

mouths  was  so  great  that  a  good  bout  was  seldom 
secured. 

A  little  farther  up  the  river  is  Tidelmington — or,  as  it 
is  now  called,  Tidmington — a  church,  a  mansion,  a 
farmhouse  and  a  few  cottages.  The  last  parish  clerk 
here  served  for  thirty-one  years — an  old-fashioned  type 

"  Who  thought  no  song  was  like  a  psalm, 
No  music  like  a  bell." 

Not  long  since,  he  was  carried  to  his  grave  by  four  of 
his  grandchildren,  and  his  office  is  now  declared  obso- 
lete. This  parish  borders  on  that  of  Todenham.  There 
the  ancient  custom  of  "beating  the  bounds  "  is  still  kept 
up.  This  in  days  gone  by  was  generally  observed 
throughout  the  country,  and  consisted  of  an  annual 
procession  or  ambulation  around  the  bourns  or  bounda- 
ries of  the  parish  by  the  rector,  churchwardens,  prom- 
inent parishioners,  meresmen  and  young  people.  The 
leading  metes  and  points  having  been  ascertained,  they 
were  severally  indicated  to  the  village  boys  and  im- 
pressed upon  their  memories  by  such  means  as  throw- 
ing one  of  them  into  the  water,  giving  another  a  sound 
thrashing  or  bumping  a  third  against  a  wall,  tree,  post, 
or  any  other  hard  substance  near  at  hand.  This  was 
supposed  to  fasten  the  fact  of  the  parish  limits  upon  the 
juvenile  intelligence,  and  took  the  place  of  the  ordnance 
map.  At  Todenham,  if  a  stranger  happens  to  be  going 
along  the  road  while  the  procession  is  passing,  the  peo- 
ple leave  off  beating  the  bounds  and  cudgel  him  instead. 
Beyond  Tidmington  is  Burmington,  and  beyond  that 
again  is  Little  Wolford,  an  ancient  hamlet  lying  off  the 
highway  and  containing  an  interesting  mansion,  partly 


66  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

of  thirteenth-century  date,  of  which  the  dining-hall, 
buttery-hatch  and  minstrels'  gallery  have  been  pre- 
served. Cherrington,  Stourton  and  Sutton  are  not  far 
distant.  In  this  same  direction,  seven  or  eight  miles 
from  Shipston,  a  little  off  the  highway  to  Chapel-House, 
is  an  ancient  stone  circle  similar  to  that  at  Stonehenge, 
known  as  the  Rollendrych,  Rowldrich  or,  more  com- 
monly, Rollright  Stones.  There  are  about  sixty  stones, 
some  buried  beneath  the  turf,  others  less  than  and  some 
about  four  feet  above  the  ground,  and  one  over  seven 
feet  high,  arranged  in  a  ring  thirty-five  yards  in  diam- 
eter, in  the  middle  of  which  is  a  clump  of  firs.  Outside 
of  the  circle  is  the  King  Stone,  eight  feet  high,  and  in 
another  direction  till  lately  were  the  Whispering  Knights, 
five  stones  leaning  against  one  another,  the  highest  of 
which  was  nearly  eleven  feet.  Local  tradition  has  for 
centuries  held  that  the  stones  are  the  transformed 
bodies  of  an  army.  A  certain  king  of  the  neighboring 
part  of  the  country,  the  story  says,  desiring  to  be  ruler 
of  all  England,  marched  with  his  men  across  the  coun- 
try, and  when  on  this  spot  exclaimed, 

"  If  Long  Compton  I  can  see, 
King  of  England  I  shall  be." 

Three  or  four  steps  farther  he  would  have  seen  the 
village  he  desired,  but  at  that  moment  a  wise  woman 
cried, 

"  Move  no  more !     Stand  fast,  Stone ! 
King  of  England  thou  shah  be  none !" 

and  he  and  his  knights  and  soldiers  were  instantly 
turned  into  stone.  Superstition  kept  the  place  from 
being  meddled  with.  A  farmer  once  carried  away  one 


THE  REGION  ROUND  ABOUT.  6/ 

of  the  Whispering  Knights  to  make  a  stepping-stone 
over  his  brook,  but  his  rest  was  so  disturbed  by  tor- 
menting spirits  that  he  returned  it  to  its  place.  Five 
horses  were  needed  to  cart  it  away;  one  sufficed  to 
bring  it  back  again.  The  nature  of  the  stones  proves 
that  they  were  originally  brought  from  a  long  distance, 
thus  suggesting  anew  the  mooted  question  of  mechan- 
ical arts  among  the  ancients.  Camden  thinks  the  stones 
commemorate  a  Danish  victory;  Plot,  that  they  mark 
the  place  where  kings  were  elected  and  crowned ;  but 
most  authorities  regard  them  as  sepulchral.  Some  have 
held  that  the  circle  is  part  of  the  outer  boundary  of  a 
Celtic  barrow  and  is  at  least  two  thousand  years  old. 
Two  hundred  yards  east  of  the  King  Stone  is  a  bank 
running  north  and  south,  where  the  exposed  soil  is  of  a 
darker  color  than  the  surrounding  earth  and  covers  the 
remains  of  men  and  horses.  Various  relics  have  been 
found  close  by,  and  everything  seems  to  support  the 
conclusion  that  here  the  people  long  ago  buried  their 
dead,  and  that  the  stones  remaining  formed  the  temple 
used  for  ancestor-worship.  The  Whispering  Knights 
are  possibly  the  remains  of  an  altar,  though  the  upper 
slab  has  been  removed,  and  the  King  Stone  may  have 
served  either  as  a  pedestal  for  an  idol  or  as  a  mark  to 
guide  worshippers  from  the  opposite  hills  and  the  val- 
ley beneath  to  the  temple.  Within  the  circle  itself  no  re- 
mains of  bodies  have  been  found,  and  we  may  reason- 
ably conjecture  that  this  was  the  sanctuary,  the  place 
where  the  worship — whether  of  the  sun  or  of  other 
forces  of  nature,  or  of  ancestors — was  offered  up,  around 
which,  as  in  our  modern  churchyards,  the  dead  were 
interred.  The  weird  grandeur  and  the  impressive  si- 


68  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

lence  speak  of  the  mutability  of  human  affairs  and  the 
transitoriness  of  human  life.  Not  a  name  abides  ;  priests 
and  people,  mourners  and  mourned,  have  passed  away. 
The  sacrificial  fires  are  unkindled,  the  hymns  to  the 
gods  unsung.  Nothing  remains  of  the  temple  so  lone 
and  grand  in  the  wilderness,  open  to  the  winds  and 
rains  of  heaven,  but  the  gray  and  lichen-stained  stones 
and  an  entrancing  and  strange  mystery.  How  modern 
the  oldest  church  in  the  land  seems  beside  those  rude 
and  ancient  relics ! 

About  five  miles  from  the  Long  Compton  which  the 
traditionary  king  desired  to  see  is  Compton  Wingate, 
also  called  Compton-in-the-Hole  because  seated  in  a 
deep  valley.  Close  by  is  Hook  Norton,  a  picturesque 
village  once  held  by  a  countess  of  Salisbury  by  the  ten- 
ure of  "  carving  before  the  king,  and  to  have  the  knife 
with  which  she  carved."  Camden,  writing  in  the  reign 
of  James  I.,  says  that  the  inhabitants  of  this  place  were 
formerly  such  clowns  that  "  to  be  born  at  Hook  Norton 
became  a  proverb  to  denote  rudeness  and  ill-breeding." 
.  In  his  day,  as  at  the  present  time,  the  people  of  the 
neighborhood  commonly  called  it "  Hog's  Norton,  where 
the  pigs  play  upon  organs,"  alluding,  it  is  said,  to  a  na- 
tive who  aspired  to  be  a  musician. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  Shipston,  two  miles  toward 
Stratford-on-Avon,  is  Tredington,  once  the  great  eccle- 
siastical centre  of  the  district.  No  less  than  ten  chapel- 
ries  in  the  largest  and  richest  parish  in  the  diocese  of 
Worcester  owed  allegiance  to  the  great  church  of  St. 
Gregory.  The  church  is  of  magnificent  proportions  and 
noble  architecture.  Norman  pillars  supporting  pointed 
arches  and  the  clerestory  separate  the  nave  from  the 


THE  REGION  ROUND  ABOUT,         69 

aisles ;  the  rood-screen  between  the  nave  and  the  chan- 
cel remains ;  the  seats  and  the  pulpit  are  of  carved  Per- 
pendicular work,  and  at  the  west  end  is  a  long  low  gal- 
lery running  the  whole  breadth  of  the  church.  The 
roof  is  flat  and  open,  the  wall  timbers  resting  on  gro- 
tesque heads,  chiefly  of  animals  resembling  bears.  In 
the  aisle  is  a  trefoliated  piscina ;  near  to  it  is  an  old  lec- 
tern, to  which  is  chained  a  copy  of  Jewel's  Apology,  and 
in  the  floor,  close  by,  is  a  large  stone  on  which  may  be 
disterned  the  carved  outlines  of  a  chalice  and  a  book. 
It  is  probably  the  monument  of  a  priest,  but  no  inscrip- 
tion remains.  In  the  north  aisle  is  an  aumbry,  square, 
with  a  wooden  shelf.  The  chancel  has  among  other 
tablets  and  slabs  two  fine  brasses  of  the  fifteenth  century. 
The  walls  were  once  covered  with  painted  scenes  from 
Scripture  and  legend,  but  in  184.1  they  were  scraped 
away ;  nor  did  the  authorities  follow  the  example  of  the 
Reformers  and  place  texts  from  the  Bible  in  their  stead. 
The  noble  tower  contains  a  good  peal  of  bells,  mostly 
of  seventeenth-century  make.  On  some  of  them  are 
inscriptions,  such  as  "  Drawe  neare  to  God  "  and  "  Gloria 
Deo  in  excelsis ;  Jesu  be  our  speed."  The  view  from 
the  parapet  is  very  fine.  Thirty  years  ago  the  choir  was 
accompanied  by  a  flute,  clarionet,  fiddle,  base-violin  and 
other  musical  instruments.  There  was  singing  in  those 
days — part-singing  of  an  elaborate  nature.  How  the 
tuning  of  the  instruments  just  before  the  chant  or  the 
hymn  was  begun  used  to  echo  through  the  dark  nave 
and  aisles !  and  when  all  was  ready,  how  lustily  and 
heartily  the  sacred  minstrelsy  poured  out  its  melody  and 
song !  In  the  churchyard — so  full  of  graves  that  it'  is 
much  higher  than  the  floor  of  the  church  and  the  out- 


70      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

side  roadway — is  an  elegant  cross  of  fourteenth-century 
work,  nearly  thirteen  feet  high.  Among  the  many 
quaint  inscriptions  on  the  tombstones  are  the  following : 

MARY   HALL  (1682). 

"  Here  lyes  that  duste  which  did  enthrone 
A  sovle  soe  piovs  soe  divine, 
That  not  a  daye  to  her  was  given 
But  shee  advanced  a  step  towrds  heaven ; 
Whither  shee  now  is  fled  to  bee 
Partaker  of  a  blest  eternity." 

LAWRANDS   SMITH  (1680). 

"  All  heads  like  mine  must  surely  come 
With  natur's  pasport  to  the  tomb ; 
Like  vagabonds  on  earth  they  must 
Returne  vnto  their  native  duste." 

The  equivocal  character  of  this  latter  one  is  matched  by 
another,  which,  referring  to  the  departed,  speaks  of 

"  His  spirit  sinking  to  its  rest." 

The  district  was  once  celebrated  for  its  parish  clerks. 
A  noble  specimen  held  office  here  till  within  some  twenty 
years.  He  succeeded  his  father — indeed,  I  believe  the 
position  was  in  the  family  for  three  generations  and  up- 
ward of  a  century.  He  knew  the  services  by  heart  and 
as  a  psalm-singer  was  unrivalled.  For  a  crinclepouch — 
that  is  to  say,  for  a  sixpence — he  would  show  the  church 
to  visitors  and  tell  the  unked  stories  of  its  nooks  and 
corners.  What  he  did  not  know  about  ghosts  was  not 
worth  knowing — not,  as  he  used  to  say,  that  he  had  ever 
seen  one  himself  or  anybody  else  that  ever  had,  but  he 
had  heard  people  who  knew  people  that  had  heard  of 


THE  REGION  ROUND  ABOUT.  J\ 

others  who  had,  and  surely  that  was  evidence  enough. 
When  in  his  desk  below  the  rector's,  during  the  service 
he  kept  one  eye  on  the  book  and  the  other  on  the  con- 
gregation, as  much  to  look  out  for  strangers  and  mark 
new  hats  and  coats  as  to  preserve  order  and  decorum. 
Prayers  ended  and  sermon  begun,  he  would  take  out  his 
red  silk  handkerchief — used  only  on  Sundays  and  at 
Christmas  and  Easter — and  throw  it  over  his  head  (the 
church  had  draughts)  and  compose  himself  contentedly 
with  a  done-my-duty  sort  of  air  in  a  corner  of  his  box- 
like  desk  to  listen  to  the  discourse.  That  he  did  not 
sleep  was  evident  from  the  fact  that  he  could  tell  what 
the  sermon  was  about ;  which  was  more  than  most  of 
the  congregation  could  do.  He  was  a  good  old  fellow, 
faithful,  loyal  and  earnest,  and  at  the  annual  tithe-dinner 
— always  held  at  the  White  Lion — he  sang  his  song, 
cracked  his  jokes  and  drank  his  ale  with  a  good  courage. 
Both  parson  and  farmers  liked  him,  but  then  those  were 
wicked  old  times  when  people  loved  their  beer  and 
thought  they  would  go  to  heaven. 

Across  the  road  is  the  rectory,  a  new  building  repla- 
cing one  of  great  age.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the 
churchyard  are  the  stocks  and  the  whipping-post,  long 
since  disused,  but  in  good  preservation.  The  village 
consists  of  small,  irregularly-built  stone  houses,  many 
of  them  of  considerable  antiquity.  Its  life  has  departed ; 
a  highway  inn  and  a  wheelwright's  shop  are  the  only 
signs  of  trade.  There  are  no  dissenters,  but  not  many 
years  since  the  churchwardens  were  asked  to  weigh  a 
woman  against  the  Bible  to  prove  to  her  neighbors  that 
she  had  not  a  familiar  spirit.  In  the  old  register  we  read 
of  payments  being  made  to  parishioners  for  killing  ob- 


72  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

noxious  animals ;  thus,  adders  were  valued  at  twopence 
each,  urchins  at  fourpence  and  foxes  at  a  shilling.  Of 
late  years  sparrows'  heads  were  paid  for  by  the  church- 
wardens at  the  rate  of  three  farthings  a  dozen.  In  1714 
a  man  was  paid  half  a  crown  for  "  whipping  ye  dogs  out 
of  ye  church."  Curious  customs  prevailed  here,  as  else- 
where in  the  neighborhood.  Two  or  three  evenings 
every  week  during  Advent  the  bells  were  rung  to  herald 
in  with  joyous  peals  the  merry  Christmastide.  The 
"  passing-bell,"  formerly  tolled  at  the  dying  of  a  par- 
ishioner to  warn  his  friends  and  neighbors  of  their  own 
mortality  and  to  urge  them  to  pray  that  he  might  find 
mercy  with  God,  now  rings  immediately  after  the  death 
— two  strokes  for  a  woman,  twice  repeated,  and  three 
strokes  for  a  man,  thrice  repeated,  followed  by  a  long 
toll ;  and  as  the  solemn  tones  are  wafted  over  the  village 
and  fields  the  housewife  will  stay  her  hand  and  the 
ploughman  will  lift  his  hat  and  utter  a  prayer  that  God 
will  keep  them  in  the  dark  hour.  At  some  places  in  the 
diocese  a  muffled  peal  was  rung  on  Innocents'  Day  in 
token  of  sorrow  for  the  babes  of  Bethlehem,  and  an  un- 
muffled  peal  as  a  thanksgiving  for  the  escape  of  the  infant 
Saviour.  Among  the  payments  made  the  rector  were 
Easter  offerings,  three  or  four  pence  for  each  communi- 
cant. Householders  also  paid  the  smoke-penny  and  the 
garden-penny,  and  the  tribute  of  "  saddle-silver "  was 
made  to  the  prior  of  Worcester  for  the  privilege  of  rid- 
ing on  horseback  through  the  ecclesiastical  estate.  In 
Saxon  times  the  place  belonged  to  Eanberht,  duke  of 
the  Wiccians,  and  at  the  Conquest  it  passed  into  the 
possession  of  the  bishop  of  Worcester.  In  the  four- 
teenth century  Robert  Walden,  of  Warwick,  founded  a 


THE  REGION  ROUND  ABOUT.  73 

chantry  in  the  parish  church.  Until  the  Reformation 
the  manor  remained  mostly  in  ecclesiastical  hands;  it 
was  then  confiscated  and  given  to  the  earl  of  Warwick. 
Darlingscote  and  Blackwell,  two  tiny  hamlets,  still  be- 
long to  the  parish;  Armscott,  formerly  Edmundscote, 
and  Newbold  were  cut  off  about  fifty  years  since.  In 
the  latter  village,  three  miles  and  a  half  from  Shipston, 
on  the  highway  to  Stratford,  is  a  neat  little  church  dedi- 
cated to  St.  David,  and  containing  in  the  chancel  two 
painted  lancets  less  in  size  than,  but  superior  in  delicacy 
of  coloring  and  beauty  of  design  to,  even  the  well-exe- 
cuted eastern  window  containing  the  scene  of  the  Last 
Judgment.  On  the  Foss  road,  to  the  east  of  the  high- 
way between  Tredington  and  Newbold,  about  a  mile 
from  either  place,  is  Halford,  noted  for  the  beauty  of  its 
bowling-green.  Here,  in  1608,  the  rector  of  Treding- 
ton, then  recently  appointed,  was  "  married  openlie  in 
the  church."  Throughout  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  cleri- 
cal marriages,  though  permitted,  were  discountenanced, 
and  were  performed  in  secret.  In  the  reign  of  Edward 
I.  part  of  the  manor  was  made  over  by  Henry  de  Hal- 
ford  to  a  man  named  Bregge  on  condition  of  his  supply- 
ing thirty-six  people  on  Christmas  Day  with  a  loaf  of 
bread,  a  herring  and  a  flagon  of  beer.  The  place  shared 
with  Stratford  the  honor  of  a  poet.  There  are  poets  of 
various  sorts.  William  Shakespeare,  the  actor,  was  of 
one  kind ;  George  Grainger,  the  parson  of  Halford,  was 
of  another.  He  was  presented  to  the  living  in  1659,  and 
commemorates  his  predecessor  as  follows : 


"  Here  lyes  a  modell  of  the  Pastour  pure, 
Described  by  Paul,  who  undertook  the  cure 


74  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

Of  congregation  all,  and  gave  example 
From  Timothy  and  Titus  large  and  ample ; 
He  was  no  fighter,  drunkard,  nor  yong  scholar, 
Not  avaricious  nor  o'ercome  with  choller." 

To  his  own  ministry,  just  beginning,  he  thus  refers: 

"  Oh,  that  this  Pastour  and  this  people  too 

In  apostolique  rules  would  dwell ; 
Whatever  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  doo, 
Our  little  Zoar  shall  fare  well." 

In  this  church  there  is  a  squint  in  the  wall  behind  the 
reading-desk,  so  that  formerly  the  people  in  the  south 
aisle  could  see  the  priest  at  the  altar ;  Chipping  Norton 
also  has  one.  In  many  ancient  chancels  there  is  a  low 
side-window  commonly  called  a  leper-window,  through 
which  lepers  or  sick  persons  during  the  time  of  plague 
might  witness  the  mass  and  receive  communion  without 
contaminating  the  congregation.  Some,  however,  think 
these  windows  were  lychnoscopes,  and  that  their  object 
was  to  allow  the  light  of  the  lamp  burning  in  the  sanc- 
tuary to  fall  on  the  v  graves  in  the  churchyard.  There 
was  such  a  window  in  Tredington  church,  but  it  is  now 
stopped  up. 

We  may  not  wander  farther  through  this  pleasing 
neighborhood.  Places  as  interesting  as  any  we  have 
spoken  of  abound.  Ilmington,  Ebrington  and  Blockley 
have  each  a  story  which  we  may  not  in  this  place 
tell. 

The  peculiarities  of  dialect  are  many,  and,  though 
there  is  a  decided  approach  to  the  general  English 
tongue,  many  of  the  common  people  still  retain  the 
lingual  idiosyncrasies  of  their  fathers.  One  of  the 


THE   REGION  ROUND  ABOUT.  75 

leading  features  of  the  dialect  is  the  lengthening  of 
the  vowels.  This  is  done  so  as  to  give  them  a  double 
quantity,  and  frequently  to  cause  them  to  be  repeated 
as  in  a  diaeresis.  For  instance,  the  following  are  com- 
mon examples  :  "  don't "  is  pronounced  "  doon't ;" 
"won't/'  "wo6n't;"  "like,"  "liike;"  "time,"  "tiime." 
"  Come"  runs  "  coom,"  like  the  word  "  coo ;"  and 
"there"  becomes  "theer,"  like  "thee"  with  an  r. 

Another  leading  characteristic  is  the  general  drawl. 
The  words  are  long  drawn  out,  fairly  enunciated,  but 
uttered  very  slowly.  The  pitch  of  voice  is  high  and 
the  tone  loud;  both  painfully  so.  The  sentence  is 
more  or  less  inflected,  at  times  running  into  a  dis- 
agreeable sort  of  rhythm.  The  aspirate  is,  of  course, 
utterly  neglected.  Occasionally  it  is  prefixed  to  a  word 
to  which  it  does  not  belong,  but  not  often,  for  that  would 
need  effort ;  and  the  prolonged  drawl  precludes  anything 
like  effort.  There  appears  to  be  no  difficulty  in  the  way 
of  their  clearly  understanding  one  another,  even  in  words 
where  the  spiritus  asper  seems  to  an  educated  ear  abso- 
lutely necessary.  They  neither  notice  its  presence  nor 
miss  its  absence.  The  liquids  are  still  clear,  making  a 
remarkable  contrast  to  the  London  speech.  On  the 
whole,  there  is  a  harshness,  a  barbarism,  which  makes 
the  tongue  the  reverse  of  attractive. 

The  grammatical  blunders  are  many.  The  nomina- 
tive and  objective  cases  are  freely  transposed.  "  Hur 
giived  hit  to  I  "  is  the  common  style.  Instead  of  "  are," 
the  use  of  "  be "  is  general ;  e.  g.,  "  You  beean't  ah 
gooin  ;"  "  I  bee  goood  ;"  "  Him  bee  ah  stunner."  The 
number  of  verbs  is  woefully  disregarded ;  e.  g.,  "  I 
cooms,"  "  we  is "  or  "  us  is,"  and  "  him  up  and  hit 


76      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

he."  This  last  example  we  heard  given  "  'Im  hup 
and  'it  'ee." 

There  are  not  many  words  peculiar  to  the  dialect. 
They  use  "  gammy  "  for  "  bad,"  "  ship  "  for  the  singu- 
lar of  "  sheep,"  "  scrimmut "  for  a  piece  of  anything, 
and  "lissom"  for  "lithesome"  or  nimble.  A  fence  is 
called  a  "  mound ;"  a  heap  or  rick  of  hay,  a  "  mow ;" 
and  a  master,  a  "  gaffer."  The  Transatlantic  "  ain't "  is 
supplied  by  the  equally  unpleasant  "  ahn't  or  "  han't." 
Most  people  use  the  word  "  Protestant "  as  descriptive 
only  of  the  Church  of  England ;  what  they  do  in  par- 
ishes where  the  parson  repudiates  that  honored  title  we 
do  not  know. 

The  vocabulary  in  the  use  of  country-people  is  small, 
their  power  to  grasp  ideas  very  slight,  and  hence  the 
difficulty  in  communicating  thought.  The  clergy,  who 
as  a  class  are  by  no  means  apt  in  the  pulpit,  have  their 
troubles  increased  on  this  account.  They  cannot  come 
down  to  the  rude  and  narrow  colloquial  speech  of  their 
rustic  parishioners.  The  dissenting  preacher,  being  taken 
from  a  lower  class  and  having  an  inferior  education,  can. 
To  imagine  an  Oxford  don  placed  in  charge  of  a  re- 
mote country  parish  preaching  according  to  the  bar- 
barous dialect  of  his  people  is  to  imagine  that  which 
is  absurd  and  unreasonable.  An  eagle  and  a  crow  or 
a  nightingale  and  a  sparrow  could  as  well  hold  com- 
munication. Thus  the  very  scholarship  of  the  English 
clergy  sometimes  becomes  a  hindrance  to  the  Church, 
though  with  the  spread  of  education  this  difficulty  will 
disappear. 

The  position  and  the  influence  of  the  country  clergy 
are,  on  the  whole,  unique  in  Christendom.  Nowhere 


THE  REGION  ROUND  ABOUT.  f] 

are  they  more  respected ;  nowhere  are  they  better  pro- 
vided for.  If  there  is  a  nicer  house  set  in  prettier 
grounds  than  any  other  in  the  village,  that  is  the  rec- 
tor's. The  love  which  his  people  will  have  for  him  will 
depend  largely  upon  the  manner  in  which  he  fulfils  his 
sacred  functions.  If  careless,  worldly,  unsympathetic 
or  indifferent,  they  will  speak  against  him  without  qual- 
ification ;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  he  is  faithful  and  loving, 
they  will  yield  him  an  obedience  and  an  affection  know- 
ing no  restraints.  Clergymen  differ.  We  heard  one 
pastor — who  probably  had  had  some  dispute  with  his 
congregation — preach  upon  the  Israelites  asking  Samuel 
for  a  king.  It  was  not  wrong,  he  said,  for  them  to  de- 
sire a  king,  since  a  king  was  a  necessity  to  every  well- 
constituted  nation :  "  Honor  the  king  "  was  the  apostolic 
injunction.  No;  the  wrong  was  committed  in  their 
wishing  to  set  aside  their  good  old  clergyman,  Samuel. 
The  pathos  passed  into  vigor  when  he  concluded,  "  My 
friends,  never  oppose  your  clergyman."  The  sermon 
was  prosy  and  soporific,  the  season  was  that  of  making 
the  hay,  and,  even  if  his  hearers  had  the  presumption 
to  understand,  it  is  probable  that  the  exhortation  fell 
upon  hard  hearts.  People  seldom  repent  when  minis- 
ters scold,  and  a  scolding  minister  indicates  an  unsatis- 
factory parish  and  shortcomings  on  both  sides. 

It  was  our  good  fortune  to  have  come  into  contact 
with  onfe  clergyman  who  brought  vividly  to  mind 
Chaucer's  and  Cowper's  description  of  a  good  pastor. 
His  influence  upon  his  parish  and  neighborhood  was  as 
that  of  the  sun  in  its  quiet,  steady  round  of  work.  The 
people  loved  him ;  all  men  admired  him.  There  were 
in  him  the  gentleness  and  holiness,  the  churchliness  and 


78       THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

poetry,  of  a  George  Herbert,  and  the  forty  years  of  his 
ministry  in  the  one  parish  had  made  it  as  a  garden  of 
the  Lord.  One  summer  evening  we  drove  to  his  church 
and  attended  service — a  plain  little  church,  but  at  this 
time  filled  with  worshippers.  Before  the  evensong  be- 
gan a  woman  was  churched  at  the  altar-rails ;  the  office 
was  read  distinctly,  and  the  congregation  joined  in  the 
responses.  A  choir  of  girls  in  white  led  the  people  in 
singing ;  and  lusty  singing  it  was,  such  as  made  one's 
heart  glad.  In  the  fields  around  the  church  the  red- 
brown  wheat  rustling  in  the  evening  breeze  and  softly 
lightened  up  by  the  sinking  sun  made  a  picture  never  to 
be  forgotten.  After  the  third  collect  a  young  preacher 
went  up  into  the  pulpit  and  delivered  a  sermon  upon 
the  first  verse  of  the  Nunc  Dimittis.  Before  he  had 
finished,  the  twilight  darkened,  so  that  the  unlighted 
church  was  filled  with  gloom.  After  the  sermon,  in  the 
night-shadows,  the  aged  rector  read  the  Litany  most 
impressively.  The  twinkling  taper  at  his  stall  was  the 
only  light  in  the  church.  Then  the  people  rose  and 
sang  the  hymn,  "  Sun  of  my  soul."  They  knew  it  by 
heart  and  needed  no  book,  while  the  ever-deepening 
shadows  added  emphasis  to  the  line,  "  It  is  not  night  if 
thou  be  near." 

It  is  the  work  of  such  men  as  this  worthy  rector 
which  makes  the  Church  dear  to  the  hearts  of  the 
people.  We  heard  something  of  disestablishment,  but 
always  as  a  remote  possibility.  Some  country-people 
asked  us  who  would  support  the  clergyman  in  such  an 
event  taking  place.  "  We  could  not,"  they  added,  "  and 
the  result  would  be  that  we  should  soon  become  hea- 
then." As  the  Church  does  not  recerve  one  penny  from 


THE   REGION  ROUND  ABOUT.  79 

the  State  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other,  and  as  she 
was  never  established  by  the  State,  being,  indeed,  some 
centuries  older,  it  is  difficult  to  understand  what  is 
meant  by  disestablishment,  unless  it  be  confiscation. 
Such  a  robbery  is  possible,  but  it  is  only  likely  when 
Socialism  has  so  prevailed  as  to  take  away  all  rights  of 
personal  property.  The  tithes  and  the  endowments  are 
not  the  gifts  of  the  nation  at  large,  but  the  bequests  of  the 
faithful  of  past  ages.  They  belong  to  the  individual 
parish,  even  as  buildings  and  trusts  do  in  America ;  if 
taken  away,  then  schools,  colleges,  hospitals  and  all 
endowed  institutions  are  likewise  liable. 

Oftentimes  in  this  district  of  which  we  are  writing  the 
people  have  real  humor — not  the  wit  of  the  Irish,  but 
the  rarer  and  higher  gift  of  a  merry,  lightsome  dispo- 
sition. Here  and  there  a  delightful  stupidity  is  shown. 
The  story  is  told  of  two  men  disputing  over  the  pur- 
chase of  pigs.  One  believed  in  buying  large  ones ;  the 
other,  in  buying  small  ones.  The  question  turned  upon 
the  quantity  which  the  latter  would  eat.  It  seemed  that 
the  one  who  opposed  their  purchase  had  once  bought 
one,  intending  to  fatten  it,  but,  though  it  ate  a  bucketful 
of  meal  at  a  time,  it  would  not  grow.  One  morning  the 
man  carried  out  a  bucketful  of  food,  and  after  the  little 
pig  had  swallowed  it  all  he  picked  it  up  and  put  it  into 
the  same  bucket,  and  the  little  wretch  did  not  fill  it 
half  full ! 

Some  years  ago  a  man  and  his  wife  belonging  to  a 
village  close  by  Shipston  resolved  to  go  to  America ;  but 
when  at  Liverpool  they  saw  the  great  sea,  the  good  fel- 
low exclaimed,  "  Let's  go  back,  Betty,  till  the  flood's 
gone  down."  This  was  the  contrary  of  the  impression 


8O      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

which  was  made  upon  another  man  when  he  took  his 
sweetheart  to  spend  a  day  at  the  seaside,  and  arrived  just 
in  time  for  the  ebb  tide :  "  Wy,  Ann,  danged  if  they 
bain't  a-lettin  t'  watter  off!"  One  of  the  sayings  in  the 
country  is,  "  If  you  only  wait,  you  may  carry  water  in  a 
sieve." — "  How  long  ?"  you  ask. — "  Till  it  freezes,"  is  the 
triumphant  reply.  Some  one  told  us  of  a  woman  who 
had  six  children,  the  eldest  only  seven  years  old.  She 
was  very  careful  about  the  Saturday-night  scrub,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  custom  of  this  neighborhood,  and  we 
asked  if  she  put  them  all  in  a  big  tub  together.  "  Oh 
no,"  was  the  reply ;  "  she  washes  them  as  she  can  catch 
them."  The  picture  of  a  mother  running  after  her  little 
ones  in  that  fashion  struck  us  as  highly  amusing. 

A  talkative  old  fellow  was  speaking  of  his  wife  in 
terms  of  lavish  praise.  She  was  the  best  this  and  the 
best  that  the  world  had  ever  known.  She  had  a  con- 
science, was  industrious,  thrifty  and  tidy,  and,  in  short, 
to  use  his  expression,  was  an  uncommonly  good  woman. 
Above  all,  she  was  ever  ready  to  help  her  neighbors. 
As  he  paused  for  breath  another  garrulous  individual 
abruptly  injected  the  observation,  possibly  to  confirm  the 
story  of  her  many  virtues,  "  Yes ;  and  if  there  is  any 
sore  throat  around,  she  is  bound  to  take  it." 

In  old  time  the  dry  humor  of  the  people  was  fre- 
quently expressed  in  the  sculptured  faces  in  the  churches. 
In  one  porch  we  saw  a  figure  in  which  the  hands  were 
drawn  over  the  stomach  and  the  face  had  the  woebegone 
expression  which  follows  a  nauseous  dose  of  medicine 
or  indicates  an  active  stage  of  seasickness.  As  one 
looked  at  the  grim-cut  and  blackened  countenance  it 
seemed  to  say,  "  That's  the  sort  of  stuff  you  get  in  this 


THE  REGION  ROUND  ABOUT.  8 1 

place."  At  Badsey  was  a  home  for  the  sick  monks  of 
the  abbey  of  Evesham;  the  sculptured  heads  in  the 
church  represent  men  in  the  pains  of  illness — toothache, 
colic,  etc.  This  sort  of  humor  is  now  expressed  in  obit- 
uary poetry — unconsciously,  of  course,  as  in  the  follow- 
ing lines  taken  from  a  stone  in  a  Birmingham  graveyard  : 

"  O  cruel  death  !     How  could  you  be  so  unkind 
As  to  take  him  before  and  leave  me  behind  ? 
You  should  have  taken  both,  if  either, 
Which  would  have  been  more  pleasant  to  the  survivor." 

This  at  Naunton  Beauchamp  upon  a  Captain  Wambey 
is  too  good  to  be  omitted : 

"  Here  lies,  retired  from  worldly  deeds, 
An  old  officer  of  the  Invalids, 
Who  in  the  army  was  born  and  bred, 
But  now  lies  quarter'd  with  the  dead. 
Stripp'd  of  all  his  warlike  show, 
And  laid  in  box  of  oak  below, 
Confin'd  in  earth,  in  narrow  borders, 
He  rises  not  till  further  orders  /" 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Eobe  in  ge  ©ttren  CCme. 

"  Say  that  she  frown  ;  I'll  say  she  looks  as  clear 
As  morning  roses  newly  washed  with  dew." 

THE  title  will  suggest  the  nature  of  the  chapter,  and 
they  who  are  not  interested  in  either  the  "  sweet  story  " 
or  how  it  was  told  in  these  remote  districts  of  England 
in  bygone  days  may  omit  the  next  twenty  pages  without 
injury  to  themselves  and  without  interfering  with  the 
thread  of  the  book.  But  you,  gentle  reader — and  I  call 
you  "  gentle  "  the  more  heartily  because  you  are  willing 
to  follow  me  along — will  find  herein  something  that  will 
please  your  heart  even  if  it  does  not  tell  you  anything 
new.  How  can  the  first  story  of  Eden  be  told  again 
with  freshness  ?  But  who  does  not  like  to  listen  to  its 
undying  echoes,  and  to  recall  the  days,  so  full  of  romance 
and  poetry  and  pretty  dreams,  when  innocence  and  beau- 
ty adorned  the  present  with  their  gentle  grace,  and  over 
the  future  happiness  and  truth  and  faith  hung  like  soft 
clouds  of  the  morning  dyed  with  the  splendor  and  the 
glory  of  the  rising  sun  ?  Then  love  was  trustful,  all- 
absorbing,  devoted — pure  and  passionate,  perhaps,  as  in 
Juliet ;  silent  and  patient,  as  in  Viola ;  thoughtful,  inex- 
perienced and  sad,  as  in  Ophelia ;  mirthful,  witty,  spright- 
ly, as  in  Rosalind;  refined,  exquisite,  heavenly,  as  in 

82 


LOVE  IN   YE    OLDEN  TIME.  83 

Miranda.  Then  life  had  not  subdued  the  soul  nor  hard- 
ened the  heart,  and  the  spirit  lived  as  in  a  fairyland  with 
the  pretty  elves  and  happy  imps  that  dance  and  sing  and 
romp  and  play  in  the  merry  greenwood  or  amid  the 
woodbine  and  the  roses. 

The  rural  people  of  England  are  in  no  sense  poetical 
and  refined :  they  are  of  sterner  stuff  than  Italian  or 
French,  more  practical  and  matter  of  fact;  yet  as  we 
look  back  upon  the  customs  which  once  prevailed 
largely,  and  in  some  places  still  linger  more  or  less,  we 
see  much  that  is  as  pleasing  as  the  song  of  gay  trouba- 
dours or  the  romance  of  Southern  bards. 

There  was  then  the  same  anxiety  and  care  displayed 
in  the  matter  of  love  as  now.  All  sorts  of  charms  were 
tried,  first  to  ensnare  some  unwary  one  of  the  opposite 
sex,  and  then  to  prove  if  he  or  she  were  true.  Love- 
sick maidens — i.  e.,  maidens  who  were  sick,  not  with 
love,  but  with  the  lack  of  it — looked  for  their  lovers  in 
the  grounds  of  their  teacups,  tied  strings  nine  times 
round  the  bedpost  for  their  future  lord  to  untie,  sowed 
hempseed  in  the  back  yard  that  he  might  mow  it,  and 
watched  the  Midsummer-night  out  in  the  church  porch 
that  they  might  catch  a  glimpse  of  him.  As  young 
ladies  nowadays  place  a  piece  of  their  newly-married 
friend's  wedding-cake  under  their  pillow  that  they  may 
dream  of  their  own  future,  so  two  hundred  years  ago 
young  men  used  to  hang  their  shoes  out  of  the  window 
and  hide  daisy-roots  under  their  pillow  for  the  same 
purpose.  A  charm  which  one  would  hope  was  not  very 
general  was  first  to  boil  an  egg  hard  and  after  taking  out 
the  contents  fill  the  shell  with  salt,  and  then,  on  going 
to  bed  at  night,  eat  shell  and  salt  without  either  speak- 


84  THE  HEART  OF  M ERR  IE  ENGLAND. 

ing  or  drinking  after  it :  a  happy  vision  would  reveal  the 
one  to  be  beloved.  There  was  once  sold  a  most  effica- 
cious love-powder  that  could  not  fail  to  produce  the 
most  desirable  affection  in  any  upon  whom  it  was 
sprinkled.  Whether  it  had  the  effect  that  the  juice  of 
Oberon's  little  Western  flower  had,  of  making  "  the  man 
or  woman  madly  dote  upon  the  next  live  creature  that 
it  sees,"  I  do  not  know.  One  thing  is  certain — that  by 
some  means  or  other  many  a  poor  laddie's  heart  was 
stolen  away  and  in  many  a  sweet  maiden's  eyes  tears 
hung  like  beauteous  pearls.  Beatrice  and  Benedick  may 
both  resolve  never  to  marry,  but  some  day  Beatrice  will 
tame  her  wild  heart  to  his  loving  hand,  and  Benedick 
will  exclaim  in  all  the  repentance  of  love,  '•  When  I  said 
I  would  die  a  bachelor,  I  did  not  think  I  should  live  till 
I  were  married."  Should  the  lover  have  any  desire  to 
know  if  his  lady  were  true,  he  could  resort  to  some  of 
the  many  charms  then  in  vogue  among  the  curious  of 
both  sexes.  A  favorite  plan  was  to  take  a  leaf  of  yar- 
row and  tickle  the  inside  of  the  nostril,  at  the  same  time 
repeating  these  lines : 

"  Green  'arrow,  green  'arrow,  you  bear  a  white  blow : 
If  my  love  love  me,  my  nose  will  bleed  now ; 
If  my  love  don't  love  me,  it  'ont  bleed  a  drop ; 
If  my  love  do  love  me,  'twill  bleed  every  drop." 

And  thus  love's  sweet  flower  took  root  in  each  heart, 
and  all  that  could  be  done  was  done  to  make  it  grow. 
He  wore  her  favors — her  glove  or  scarf  or  kerchief — in 
his  hat  or  on  his  breast,  wrote  verses  in  her  praise, 
carved  her  name  on  tree  or  post  or  fence,  sang  songs  to 
her  in  the  quiet  eventide,  conned  pretty  sayings  that 


LOVE  IN   YE    OLDEN  TIME.  85 

should  please  her  ear  and  touch  her  heart,  fought  for 
her  against  all  rivals  and  detractors,  sent  her  choice 
presents — ribbons  and  laces,  sugar  and  cakes,  cloves  and 
cinnamon,  perhaps  his  best  and  bravest  hawk  or  his  own 
true,  trusted  greyhound ;  she  talked  and  dreamed  of 
him,  waited,  watched  and  wept  for  him,  wore  her  pret- 
tiest gown  and  finest  headdress,  bathed  her  face  in  May- 
dew  and  scented  herself  with  lavender  and  musk,  prayed 
that  he  might  be  her  Valentine  and  she  his  dear  May- 
queen,  and  when  he  stood  before  her  blushed  with  a 
beauty  and  a  loveliness  that  shamed  the  roses  of  the 
garden,  the  ruby-tinted  morning  sky  itself. 

But  suppose  all  the  charms  and  plots  failed  to  touch 
the  angel  of  the  opposite  sex ;  what  then  ?  Well,  then, 
as  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  hath  it,  "  there  is  a  good  deal 
to  be  said  on  both  sides."  Some  would  pine  and  sor- 
row; some,  look  farther  afield.  Viola  would 

"  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 
Feed  on  her  damask  cheek," 

and  Ophelia  would  drown  herself  in  the  willow-shaded 
brook ;  but  Philarete  would  most  likely  meditate  upon 
the  inevitable  after  this  fashion: 

"  Shall  I,  wasting  in  despaire, 
Dye,  because  a  woman's  fair  ? 
Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care 
'Cause  another's  Rosie  are  ? 

Be  she  fairer  than  the  Day 

Or  the  flow'ry  Meads  in  May, 

If  she  thinke  not  well  of  me 

What  care  I  how  fake  she  be  ? 

"  Shall  my  seely  heart  be  pin'd 
'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind  ? 


86  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

Or  a  well-disposed  Nature 
Joyned  with  a  lovely  feature  ? 

Be  she  Meeker,  Kinder  than 

Turtle-dove  or  Pcllican, 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 

What  care  I  how  kind  she  be  ? 

"  Great  or  Good  or  Kind  or  Faire, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  despaire : 
If  she  love  me  (this  beleeve), 
I  will  Die  ere  she  shall  grieve. 

If  she  slight  me  when  I  woe, 

I  can  scorne  and  let  her  goe  ; 

For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 

What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ?" 

The  good  old  ballad  is  not  far  from  wrong,  though 
the  song  says : 

"  A  poore  soule  sat  sighing  under  a  sicamore  tree ; 

O  willow,  willow,  willow  ! 
With  his  hand  on  his  bosom,  his  head  on  his  knee ; 

O  willow,  willow,  willow  ! 

O  willow,  willow,  willow  ! 
Sing,  O  the  greene  willow  shall  be  my  garland." 

A  youth  so  far  gone  as  that  would  be  likely  to  have 
neither  the  garland  of  a  bachelor  at  his  funeral  nor 
sweet-william  and  rosemary  on  his  grave,  for,  on  the 
principle  that  an  overdose  of  poison  defeats  its  pur- 
pose, he  would  recover.  As  Rosalind  said,  "  Men  have 
died  from  time  to  time,  and  worms  have  eaten  them,  but 
not  for  love."  Only  remember, 

"  A  man  his  mynd  should  never  set 
Upon  a  thing  he  cannot  get." 


LOVE  IN   YE    OLDEN  TIME.  87 

There  is  one  question  always  asked  concerning  lovers  : 
"  What  did  he  see  in  her  ?"  or  "  What  did  she  see  in 
him?"  It  is,  I  presume,  a  natural  inquiry,  though 
slightly  touched  with  a  mild  spitefulness  and  envy. 
But  here,  if  anywhere,  there  is  no  accounting  for 
tastes.  There  is  such  a  wide  and  happy  diversity 
that,  no  matter  if  a  world  cannot  see  anything  to  ad- 
mire in  a  youth  of  either  sex,  some  one  individual  will 
be  likely  to  discover  a  charm  that  will  lead  him  or  her 
captive.  It  has  been  asked,  "  Who  ever  loved  that  loved 
not  at  first  sight  ?"  and  we  further  ask,  "  What  did  Love 
see  at  first  sight  ?  What  sends  the  arrow  speeding  to 
its  mark  ?"  Perhaps,  as  far  as  he  is  concerned — and  I 
would  not  venture  to  say  aught  of  a  woman's  inclina- 
tions— it  may  be  a  dimple  in  her  cheek,  a  playful 
twitching  of  her  lips,  a  pretty  frown  upon  her  fore- 
head, a  sparkling  glance  in  her  eye.  It  may  be  the 
color  of  her  eyes — black,  brown,  blue,  green  or  gray. 
In  Chaucer's  time  a  gray  eye  was  considered  the 
height  of  perfection,  Dante  knew  no  prettier  than  the 
green  eyes  of  his  Beatrice ;  and  with  the  latter  Cer- 
vantes and  Cicero  both  agree.  It  may  be  the  color  of 
her  hair — anything  from  the  white  flaxen  to  the  raven 
black.  Spenser  was  evidently  partial  to  yellow  hair. 
His  Florimell,  Belphcebe,  Alma,  Una,  Britomart,  and 
others  of  his  creations,  have  all  hair  like  the  Virgin 
Queen  herself,  of  the  bright  golden  hue.  Or  it  may 
be  her  nose — a  straight  nose  or  a  crooked  nose,  a  wee 
little  thing  or  a  miniature  elephantine  model,  a  pug  or 
a  turn-up  or  a  sharp  point.  Possibly  it  is  her  eyebrows 
— arched,  full,  dark,  expressive ;  or  her  eyelashes — 
long,  short,  even,  tear-bedewed  or  fringe-like.  Perhaps 


88       THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

it  is  her  complexion — white  as  the  pale  lily  or  bright  as 
the  red  rose ;  or  her  hands — fat  and  plump,  or  long  and 
lean;  or  her  general  carriage — stately  and  grand  or 
sprightly  and  gay.  Perhaps  your  wise  young  man 
remembers  that 

"  The  fairest  rose  in  shortest  time  decays," 

and  so  he  is  attracted  by  accomplishments  rather  than 
by  charms.  Nobody  knows  what  men  may  fall  in  love 
with.  It  may  be  something  better  than  any  other  quali- 
fication whatsoever,  a  noble,  loving,  devoted  soul — a  soul 
that  reveals  itself  to  none  but  the  one  it  loves,  a  soul  that 
remains  ever  constant  and  faithful,  ever  gentle  and  kind, 
and  gives  to  the  body  its  sweetest  grace,  its  truest  life, 
its  most  winning  charm.  Happy  is  the  man  who  is  won 
by  such  an  attraction  as  this.  It  matters  little  whether 
his  lady-love  be  as  beautiful  as  Herrick's  Sappho,  whose 
pure  paleness  the  white  roses  tried  to  outrival  and  blushed 
for  very  failure,  or  as  plain  and  homely  as  the  plainest 
and  homeliest  damsel  you  can  find:  she  will  be  true  when 
all  else  is  false,  precious  when  all  else  is  worthless,  lovely 
when  all  else  has  lost  its  charm,  and  young  when  all  else 
is  old. 

There  is  extant  an  interesting  letter  written  by  an 
Eton  boy  in  the  year  1479  to  his  brother,  describing 
how  he  had  met  at  a  wedding  the  younger  daughter 
of  a  widow,  a  gentlewoman  eighteen  or  nineteen  years 
old,  and  how  he  had  fallen  desperately  in  love  with 
her.  He  wished  his  brother  to  go  and  see  her.  She 
would  have  something  when  she  married,  and  more  at 
her  mother's  death ;  "  and,"  adds  he,  "  as  for  hyr  bewte, 
juge  you  that  when  ye  see  hyr,  yf  so  be  that  ye  take 


LOVE   IN   YE    OLDEN  TIME.  89 

the  laubore,  and  specialy  beolde   hyr   handys."     Like 
many  another  schoolboy's  love,  so  earnest  and  sincere 
for  the  time,  William  Paston's  came  to  nothing. 
And  this  brings  us  to  the  famous  lines, 

"  For  aught  that  ever  I  could  read, 
Could  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history, 
The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth." 

The  proof  is  to  be  found  in  the  times  when  the  unmar- 
ried possessor  or  inheritor  of  wealth  was  a  marketable 
commodity  and  was  sold  very  much  as  a  horse  or  a  cow 
was  sold.  From  the  days  of  William  Rufus  down  to 
the  times  of  the  Commonwealth  an  heir  or  an  heiress 
was  the  ward — I  should  say  the  property — of  the  Crown, 
and  could  get  married  only  with  the  consent  of  the  king 
and  by  payment  of  a  heavy  fee.  Frequently  the  match 
was  made  by  the  sovereign  or  the  council,  and  the  par- 
ties concerned  were  forced  to  accept  the  arrangement 
and  make  the  best  of  it.  The  same  practice  ran  through 
all  society.  If  not  the  king  or  the  feudal  lord,  then  the 
parents  or  other  relatives,  decided  the  question.  Thus  in 
those  happy  ages  a  maiden's  heart  was  rarely  her  own  to 
give.  If  she  ventured  to  love  when  she  should  not  or 
failed  to  love  when  she  should,  it  was  not  unusual  to  lock 
her  up,  beat  her,  starve  her,  and  ill-treat  her  generally, 
until  her  affections  were  brought  into  proper  subjection. 
Of  a  girl  of  twenty  who  refused  to  marry  a  disfigured 
widower  of  fifty  we  are  told  in  a  letter  written  in  the 
year  1449  to  her  brother,  "  She  hath  since  Easter  the 
most  part  been  beaten  once  in  the  week  or  twice,  and 
sometimes  twice  in  one  day,  and  her  head  broken  in  two 
or  three  places."  This  was  in  high  life  and  under  her 


90      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

own  mother's  roof,  but  the  girl  was  disobedient  and 
plucky,  nor  did  she  have  the  widower.  She  was  an  ex- 
ception to  the  rule.  A  dutiful  child  did  not  think  of  fall- 
ing in  love  or  of  selecting  a  partner  in  matrimony.  The 
utmost  freedom  existed  between  young  people  of  the 
opposite  sexes.  Young  ladies  and  young  gentlemen 
kissed  each  other  freely  whenever  they  met,  in  the  streets 
or  in  the  houses.  As  Erasmus  tells  us,  "  there  were 
kisses  when  you  came,  and  kisses  when  you  went  away 
— delicate,  fragrant  kisses  that  would  assuredly  tempt  a 
poet  from  abroad  to  stay  in  England  all  his  days."  But 
there  was  no  thought  of  marriage.  That  was  a  thing 
others  would  arrange ;  and  if  once  in  a  while  the  rule 
were  broken  and  the  liberty  of  loving  without  permis- 
sion indulged  in,  then,  most  assuredly,  the  course  of  true 
love  did  not  run  smoothly.  As  a  rule,  however,  the 
young  people  of  the  Middle  Ages  had  a  most  excellent 
control  over  their  affections.  They  generally  loved  when 
told  to  do  so,  and  generally  kept  their  hearts  whole 
when  their  friends  thought  it  desirable. 

We  have  an  interesting  illustration  of  all  this  in  a 
Norfolkshire  family  in  the  reign  of  Henry  IV.  John 
Paston,  a  younger  and  needy  brother  of  a  man  of  con- 
siderable position  and  wealth  in  that  county,  was  a  free, 
jovial,  good-natured  fellow  with  only  one  thing  wanting 
to  complete  his  happiness — viz.,  a  rich  wife.  He  did  not 
care  much  about  the  woman,  so  that  she  had  money : 
she  was  only  a  necessary  inconvenience  attached  to  an 
estate.  The  elder  brother  did  his  best  for  him.  On 
John's  behalf  he  wooed  every  likely  spinster  and  widow 
he  could  find.  It  was  nothing  to  have  two  or  three 
strings  to  his  bow  at  the  same  time.  He  tried — or,  at 


LOVE   IN   YE    OLDEN  TIME.  9! 

least,  was  told  by  John  to  try — to  get  a  pretty  daughter 
of  a  London  draper,  also  a  young  "  thing,"  as  he  signifi- 
cantly and  business-like  calls  her,  in  the  same  city,  and 
also  "  some  old  thrifty  draff-wife  "  in  the  same  city.  All 
these  attempts,  and  others  like  them,  failed,  but  at  last  a 
suitable  damsel  was  found,  sweet  Margery  Brews,  a 
bright,  spry  girl,  who  when  once  she  learned  that  John's 
heart  was  touched  and  that  he  was  negotiating  with  her 
mother  gave  the  latter  no  rest  till  the  affair  was  satisfac- 
torily settled.  She  was  head  over  heels  in  love — wildly, 
madly  in  love ;  but  her  father  was  not  willing  to  pay 
down  with  her  quite  so  much  as  John  desired,  and  for  a 
time  things  looked  doubtful.  Her  mother  promised  to 
give  the  young  couple  three  years'  board  if  they  would 
only  marry.  "  I  shall  give  you,"  she  further  says,  writ- 
ing to  John,  "  a  greater  treasure — that  is,  a  witty  gentle- 
woman, and,  if  I  say  it,  both  good  and  virtuous ;  for  if 
I  should  take  money  for  her,  I  would  not  give  her  for  a 
thousand  pounds."  And  dear  Margery  herself  wrote  to 
him  some  of  the  sweetest  love-letters  any  girl  could 
write,  in  which  she  begs  him  not  to  give  her  up  for  the 
sake  of  the  money.  She  had  him ;  they  were  married 
and  lived  happily. 

Two  hundred  years  later,  and  we  find  our  old  friend 
Mr.  Samuel  Pepys  doing  the  same  sort  of  thing.  He 
and  Sir  John  Paston,  the  elder  brother  of  the  John  just 
mentioned,  were  two  of  the  most  energetic  and  accom- 
plished of  matchmakers.  Samuel  had  a  sister,  Paulina, 
who  was,  he  says,  proud  and  idle,  not  over-friendly  to 
his  wife,  "  so  cruel  an  hypocrite  that  she  can  cry  when 
she  pleases,"  and  so  ill-natured  that  he  could  not  love 
her.  Moreover,  he  adds,  "she  grows  old  and  ugly." 


92  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE   ENGLAND. 

Everything  that  he  could  do  to  "  dispose  of  her  "  he  did. 
He  got  his  wife  to  speak  to  a  clerk  on  Miss  Pepys's  be- 
half, and  he  received  the  advice  "  with  mighty  acknow- 
ledgements," but  "  had  no  intention  to  alter  his  condition." 
A  young  parson  was  tried,  but  in  vain.  Time  rolled  by, 
and  no  husband  for  Paulina.  At  last  "  a  plain  young 
man,  handsome  enough  for  Pall,  one  of  no  education  nor 
discourse,"  was  found,  and  for  a  comfortable  considera- 
tion he  took  her ;  and  so,  says  Pepys,  "  that  work  is,  I 
hope,  well  over."  He  was  engaged  in  more  serious 
matchmaking  than  this,  but  really  it  was  mean  of  him 
after  going  to  church  one  Christmas  day  to  write,  "  Saw 
a  wedding  in  the  church,  which  I  have  not  seen  for  many 
a  day;  and  the  young  people  so  merry  one  with  an- 
other !  and  strange  to  see  what  delight  we  married  peo- 
ple have  to  see  these  poor  fools  decoyed  into  our  con- 
dition, every  man  and  woman  gazing  and  smiling  at 
them." 

Not  always  did  such  matches  turn  out  well.  There 
was  in  the  year  1294  in  a  little  Norfolk  village  a  widow 
named  Sara  Felix.  Her  husband  had  left  her  consid- 
erable property  and  three  daughters,  the  eldest  of  whom 
was  not  more  than  eight  or  nine  years  old  when  her 
father  died.  This  daughter,  whose  name  was  Alice,  we 
may  imagine  was,  from  the  fact  of  her  mother's  wealth, 
if  not  for  her  own  beauty,  a  lovable  object  in  the  eyes 
of  young  men  far  and  near.  At  any  rate,  when  she  was 
about  fifteen,  she  was  wooed  and  won  by  an  eligible 
youth  named  John  of  Thyrsford.  In  all  probability,  I 
should  say,  her  mother  was  wooed  and  her  fortune  was 
won,  the  girl  being  thrown  in  as  an  unimportant,  though 
necessary,  part  of  the  matrimonial  bargain.  I  fancy 


LOVE  IN    YE    OLDEN  TIME.  93 

there  was  very  little  of  the  sunshine  and  poetry  that 
lovers  nowadays  contrive  to  get  into  their  courtship. 
The  marriage  was  an  unhappy  one.  John  had  not  been 
married  more  than  a  year  or  two  when  he  began  to 
devise  means  to  regain  his  freedom. 

Divorces  were  difficult  to  obtain  in  those  days,  and, 
except  by  payment  of  heavy  costs,  there  was  but  one 
way  by  which  it  was  possible  to  get  one.  This  one  way 
was  both  easy  and  cheap,  and  that  way  John  tried. 
Could  a  man  but  get  a  bishop  to  admit  him  to  orders 
— the  minor  orders  would  do — he  became  at  once,  if  a 
serf,  free  from  villeinage ;  if  a  husband,  free  from  matri- 
mony. Clerics  could  not  be  slaves  either  to  a  lord  or  to 
a  wife :  they  were  sons  of  liberty.  So  John  got  or- 
dained, and  thus  got  divorced  from  poor  little  Alice. 
The  worst  of  it  was  that  the  girl  could  not  marry  again, 
and,  as  she  had  no  child,  she  was  doomed  to  a  lonely 
life. 

Easy  would  it  be  to  draw  a  sketch  of  the  child-wife 
in  her  deserted  youth.  We  might  picture  her  sighing 
and  sobbing  in  the  eventide,  weeping  under  the  lonely 
willows,  ministering  to  loving  cats  and  tricksy  dogs. 
We  might  picture  her  wearing  the  weeds  of  widowhood, 
singing  mournful  ditties  as  she  picked  apples  in  the  or- 
chard or  turnips  in  the  field,  going  to  church  twice  a 
day  by  way  of  desperation  and  attending  executions  and 
ordeals  by  way  of  amusement.  But  such  pictures  would 
be  purely  imaginary.  We  are  not  told  whether  the  roses 
faded  in  her  cheeks  or  the  lustre  died  in  her  eyes ;  in 
fact,  though  we  may  reasonably  suppose  she  had  cheeks 
and  eyes,  we  have  no  evidence  that  she  had  either  roses 
or  lustre.  We  do  not  know  if  she  lamented  her  loss  to 


94  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

her  friends,  if  she  learned  to  hate  mankind  in  general  or 
John  of  Thyrsford  in  particular :  these  are  points  fancy, 
and  not  history,  can  deal  with.  Perhaps  she  was  as  glad 
to  get  rid  of  him  as  he  was  to  get  rid  of  her :  the  wed- 
ding had  turned  out  badly.  Any  way,  she  managed  to 
live  on  as  the  lady  of  the  village  for  nearly  fifty  years 
after  her  divorce.  Her  husband  became  vicar  of  the 
same  village — perhaps  the  divorce  did  not  mean  so 
much,  after  all,  though  the  story  is  provokingly  silent 
on  that  point — and  vicar  he  remained  for  some  forty 
years.  He  died  ten  years  before  Alice.  When  old  age 
came  upon  her,  and  the  tresses  of  youth  were  gray,  if 
not  gone,  and  the  dimples  of  maidenhood  had  changed 
into  the  wrinkles  of  senility,  she  gave  up  her  property, 
went  into  a  nunnery,  and  there  died. 

This  is  the  true  and  faithful  history  of  Alice  the  wife 
of  John  of  Thyrsford  and  the  daughter  of  Thomas  the 
Lucky  of  Rougham,  and  they  who  wish  to  verify  it  can 
go  to  the  writings  of  an  erudite  divine  of  Norwich,  Dr. 
Jessop  by  name. 

It  is  pleasing  to  know  that  there  were  other  motives 
than  those  we  have  mentioned — happy  exceptions  to  the 
rule — which  moved  parents  to  give  their  daughters  in 
marriage.  About  the  year  1559,  Sir  William  Hewet, 
the  lord  mayor,  lived  on  London  Bridge,  and  one  day, 
when  the  nurse  was  playing  with  his  little  daughter 
Anne  at  one  of  the  broad  lattice-windows  overlooking 
the  Thames,  the  child  fell  into  the  water.  A  young  ap- 
prentice named  Osborne,  seeing  the  accident,  leaped  into 
the  fierce  current  below  the  arches  and  saved  the  infant. 
The  story  is  told  and  an  illustration  of  the  leap  given  in 
Cassell's  Old  and  New  London.  "  Years  after,  many 


LOVE   IN   YE    OLDEN  TIME.  95 

great  courtiers,  including  the  earl  of  Shrewsbury,  came 
courting  fair  Mistress  Anne,  the  rich  citizen's  heiress. 
Sir  William,  her  father,  said  to  one  and  all,  '  No ;  Os- 
borne  saved  her,  and  Osborne  shall  have  her.'  And  so 
Osborne  did,  and  became  a  rich  citizen,  and  lord  mayor 
in  1583." 

Assuming  that  the  friends  and- the  law  were  satisfied, 
and  that  the  affection  of  the  parties  most  concerned  was 
as  warm  and  true  as  it  should  be,  the  thing  had  to  be 
made  public  and  an  open  betrothal  to  be  performed.  It 
was  from  the  friends  and  acquaintances  the  awkwardness 
would  chiefly  arise.  The  would-be  bridegroom,  and  the 
would-be  bride  scarcely  less  so,  would  have  to  endure 
many  a  queer  joke,  coarse  jest  and  broad  laugh — good- 
natured  enough,  no  doubt,  but  none  the  less  hard  to 
suffer.  They  would  be  watched  in  church  and  in  the 
street,  mimicked  and  rhymed,  asked  all  sorts  of  awk- 
ward questions  and  played  all  sorts  of  tricks,  serenaded, 
toasted,  gossiped  over,  sneered  at,  praised,  disparaged, 
encouraged,  caricatured,  till  life  would  not  have  been 
worth  living  had  it  not  had  love  to  sustain  it.  But,  like 
all  other  nine-day  wonders,  this  would  die  out  and  the 
match  come  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  matter  of  fact. 

And  some  evening  there  would  be  a  grand  party  at 
the  house  of  the  maiden's  father.  All  the  relatives  and 
friends  far  and  near,  including  his  reverence  the  parson 
and  his  scarcely  less  reverence  the  clerk,  would  be  in- 
vited to  witness  the  betrothal  or  engagement  of  Corydon 
and  Philida.  Fresh  green  rushes  would  be  strewn  over 
the  floor,  the  tables  and  settees  scrubbed  clean  and  white, 
the  candlesticks,  snuffers,  flagons,  tankards  and  cups  pol- 
ished to  look  as  bright  as  new,  and  the  larder  filled  with 
7 


g6       THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

good  things — perhaps  a  piece  of  fresh  beef,  a  rare  article 
in  olden  time,  perhaps  a  choice  turkey,  goose  or  fowl 
from  the  barnyard.  In  the  cellar  would  be  a  bountiful 
supply  of  strong,  heady  ale  and  mead — maybe  a  cask  or 
two  of  good  wine  from  beyond  the  seas  or  home  made — 
and  the  best  minstrel  or  fiddler  in  the  neighborhood 
would  be  engaged  for  the  occasion.  What  a  free,  happy, 
boisterous  time !  The  old  house  would  ring  with  the 
merry  song  and  the  loud  chorus.  A  silver — perhaps  a 
gold — coin  would  be  broken  in  two  between  the  lovers ; 
they  would  kiss  each  other,  join  hands  and  exchange 
rings,  and  vow  to  keep  the  faith  now  given.  And  the 
great  silver  cup  was  filled  with  the  frothy,  foaming  ale 
and  emptied  by  each  guest  to  the  honor  and  health  of 
the  young  couple,  and  the  men  kissed  the  pretty,  blush- 
ing girl  and  the  women  kissed  the  awkward,  gawkish 
and  supremely  happy  lad,  and  the  fiddler  exercised  his 
art,  and  up  the  hall  and  down  the  hall  the  gay,  light- 
hearted  folks  danced  as  we  can  never  dance  and  shouted 
as  we  can  never  shout.  Oh,  they  were  merry ! 

Even  the  aged  people  forgot  themselves.  The  old 
grandfather  laughed  and  sang  till  the  tears  ran  down  his 
withered  cheeks,  and  the  ancient  dame  his  wife  rested 
not  till  she  had  had  her  hop  and  jump — it  could  scarcely 
be  called  a  dance,  for  she  used  crutches  and  was  nearly 
double — with  the  brightest  and  liveliest  of  the  crowd. 
Away  they  go ! 

"If  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on !" 

Hither  and  thither,  in  and  out,  off  and  back  again,  till, 
exhausted,  they  sit  down  around  the  festive  board. 
There  are,  of  course,  love-letters — private,  confidential, 


LOVE  IN   YE    OLDEN  TIME.  97 

eloquent.  Many  have  survived  the  wasting  of  time ;  of 
which,  take  the  following,  written  by  the  pretty  Margery 
already  mentioned  to  her  lover,  John  Paston.  It  is  dated 
February,  1477,  and,  while  illustrating  the  universal 
spirit  of  such  effusions,  will  by  reprinting  do  no  possi- 
ble harm  to  people  who  have  so  long  passed  away : 

"  Unto  my  ryght  welebelovyd  Voluntyn,  John  Paston, 
Sqtiyer,  be  this  bill  delyvered,  etc. 

"  Ryght  reverent  and  wurschypfull,  and  my  ryght 
welebeloved  Voluntyne,  I  recomande  me  unto  yowe, 
ffull  hertely  desyring  to  here  of  yowr  welefare,  whech  I 
beseche  Almyghty  God  long  for  to  preserve  un  to  Hys 
plesur,  and  yowr  herts  desyre.  And  yf  it  please  yowe 
to  here  of  my  welefar,  I  am  not  in  good  heele  of  body, 
nor  of  herte,  nor  schall  be  tyll  I  her  ffrom  yowe ; 

For  there  wottys  no  creature  what  peyn  that  I  endure, 
And  for  to  be  deede,  I  dare  it  not  dyscure. 

And  my  lady  my  moder  hath  labored  the  mater  to  my 
ffader  full  delygently,  but  sche  can  no  mor  gete  then  ye 
knowe  of,  for  the  whech  God  knowyth  I  am  full  sory. 
But  yf  that  ye  loffe  me,  as  I  tryste  verely  that  ye  do,  ye 
will  not  leffe  me  therefor ;  for  if  that  ye  hade  not  halfe 
the  lyvelode  that  ye  hafe,  for  to  do  the  grettest  labur 
that  any  woman  on  lyve  myght,  I  wold  not  forsake 
yowe. 

And  yf  ye  commande  me  to  kepe  me  true  wherever  I  go, 
I  wyse  I  will  do  all  my  myght  yowe  to  love  and  never  no  mo, 
And  yf  my  freends  say,  that  I  do  amys, 
Thei  schal  not  me  let  so  for  to  do, 


98       THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

Myne  herte  me  bydds  ever  more  to  love  yowe 

Truly  over  all  erthely  thing, 
And  yf  thei  be  never  so  wroth, 
I  tryst  it  schall  be  better  in  tyme  commyng. 

"  No  more  to  yowe  at  this  tyme,  but  the  Holy  Trinitie 
hafe  yowe  in  kepyng.  And  I  besech  yowe  that  this  bill 
be  not  seyn  of  none  erthely  creatur  safe  only  your  selffe, 
etc. 

"And  thys  letter  was  indyte  at  Topcroft,  with  full 
hevy  herte,  etc., 

"  By  your  own, 

"  MARGERY  BREWS." 

Poor  Margery!  and  when  her  lover's  elder  brother, 
Sir  John,  had  "  consyderyd  hyr  persone,  hyr  yowthe, 
and  the  stok  that  she  is  comyn  offe,  the  love  on  bothe 
sydes,  the  tendre  flavor  that  she  is  in  with  hyr  ffader  and 
mooder,  the  kyndenesse  off  hyr  ffadr  and  moodr  to  hyr 
in  departyng  with  hyr,  the  ffavor  also,  and  goode  con- 
ceyte  that  they  have  in  my  brother,  the  worshypfull  and 
vertuous  dysposicion  off  hyr  ffadr  and  moodr,  whyche 
pronostikyth  that,  of  lyklihod,  the  mayde  sholde  be  ver- 
tuous and  goode,"  he  was  agreeable  to  the  match  ! 

Here  is  another,  of  the  seventeenth  century,  the  orig- 
inal of  which  is  in  the  British  Museum : 

"  Deare  Hearte,  I  am  heartilie  sorry  that  some  occa- 
sions have  hindered  me  from  coming  to  see  you  all  this 
while ;  I  desire  you  to  impute  my  absence  not  to  want 
of  love,  but  of  leisure ;  and  I  beseech  you  to  bee  as- 
sured that  there  lives  not  a  more  constant,  faithfull, 
and  affectionate  lover  uppon  the  face  of  the  whole 
earth  than  I  am,  of  your  most  worthie  SELFE,  whose 


LOVE  IN   YE    OLDEN  TIME.  99 

VERTUE  &  BEAVTY  is  such  that  I  haue  uerie  good  cause 
to  belejue  there  lives  not  a  second  to  be  parallell'd  wth 
you.  I  haue  here  sent  you  a  small  token,  whch  I 
desire  you  to  accept  of;  I  haue  allso  sent  you  a  copy 
of  uerses  made  by  him  who  is  the  admirer  &  adorer  of 
your  divjne  beautje ;  HENRJE  OXJNDEN.  Barham  :  Feb : 
26:  1641.  An"  CEtat:  tua,  17." 

What  becomes  of  these  interesting  epistles  ?  That  is 
more  than  we  can  say.  They  are  written  in  abundance 
— thousands,  I  suppose,  every  day — but  they  are  scarce 
as  roses  in  Greenland.  Perhaps  they  are  burnt  as  soon 
as  read — or,  at  least,  as  soon  as  the  affair  of  which  they 
treat  is  happily  terminated.  And  yet,  when  a  breach-of- 
promise  case  comes  before  the  court,  there  are  the  let- 
ters !  One  young  lady  who  collected  hers  made  a  pil- 
low of  them.  She  slept  on  that  sweet  bundle  till  one 
day,  about  four  months  after  her  wedding,  she  had  a 
difference  with  her  husband,  and  the  pillow  found  its 
way  into  the  fire.  Another  lady  had  hers  bound  in  a 
volume,  and  every  morning  after  she  had  read  her  chap- 
ter in  the  Bible  she  read  one  of  the  letters  and  then  said 
her  prayers.  She  maintained  that  it  was  her  duty  to 
keep  alive  the  remembrances  of  the  past  and  to  nour- 
ish the  sacred  emotion.  A  third  had  hers  reduced  to 
a  pulp  and  then  made  up  into  an  antique  Japanese  cas- 
ket for  jewelry.  These,  however,  are  only  a  few  among 
the  myriads ;  where  do  the  rest  go  ? 

Love-letters  are  sweet  and  pleasant,  but  the  happy 
hours  the  young  folks  spend  together  are  still  sweeter 
and  pleasanter.  To  see  young  Colin  getting  ready  to 
go  and  court  his  lassie  was  a  sight  that  would  tickle  and 
please  any  heart.  His  mother  says  he  was  never  so 


IOO  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

clean  and  tidy  and  exact  before  in  his  life.  There  must 
not  be  a  speck  of  dust  or  dirt  on  his  clothes ;  his  shoes 
must  shine  like  a  looking-glass  and  his  handkerchief  be 
redolent  with  bergamot.  His  sister  Mary  brushes  him, 
and  pins  in  his  coat  the  best  carnation  and  rosebud  she 
can  find  in  the  garden,  and  sends  him  off  with  a  good 
sisterly  kiss  and  with  kindred  feelings ;  for  she  expects 
Tim,  old  Farmer  Berry's  son,  that  very  evening.  And 
Colin  trudges  across  the  fields  and  through  the  shaded 
lane  whistling  as  happily  and  loudly  as  any  bird  in  the 
world.  He  begins  to  think  himself  somebody :  he  in- 
tends to  join  the  militia  or  the  rifle  volunteers — or,  as 
they  would  call  it  many  years  since,  the  train-band; 
and  oh  how  glad  he  will  be  when  Lucy  is  his  wife! 
As  he  goes  by  he  looks  in  at  the  little  cottage  which 
his  father  intends  to  give  him  as  the  first  home  for  his 
bride,  and  thoughts  of  the  future  fill  him  with  joy.  And 
when  he  reaches  Lucy's  house,  how  pleased  she  is  to 
see  him !  Her  eyes  sparkle  with  delight,  and  no  kiss 
was  ever  so  sweet  as  that  which  she  shyly  and  mod- 
estly gives  him.  And  when  she  gets  her  hat  and  they 
go  off  for  an  hour's  ramble  down  to  the  meadow  or 
through  the  woods  or  by  the  side  of  the  brook,  he 
thinks  never  was  girl  so  dear  as  she,  and  she  thinks 
him  to  be  the  only  one  worth  having  among  all  the 
swains  of  the  country-side.  Happy  dreams!  Life  is 
full  of  flowers  and  sunshine.  The  world  is  nothing  to 
them  :  they  are  each  other's  world ;  and  without  a  thought 
other  than  that  of  supremest  joy  they  pluck  the  vio- 
lets, the  oxslips  and  the  sweet-brier,  and  sing  their 
merry  lays  with  glad,  free  hearts  and  trilling  voices, 
and  talk  of  the  days  and  the  blessirtgs  that  shall  be 


LOVE  IN  YE   OLDEN  TIME.  IOI 

theirs  in  the  not-far-distant  by  and  by.  When  they 
get  home,  they  find  that  mother  has  got  the  tea  ready ; 
the  kettle  is  singing  on  the  hob,  and  on  the  table,  cov- 
ered with  a  snow-white  cloth,  are  new-made  bread,  fresh 
butter,  clotted  cream  and  bright-green  watercresses. 
The  blackbird  in  the  wicker  cage  pours  forth  his 
best  and  richest  melody ;  even  the  cat  purrs  and  hums 
as  if  her  heart  also  were  full  of  love  and  joy.  And  the 
old  gentleman  comes  in  and  gives  Colin  a  hearty  wel- 
come, for  Colin  is  a  good  boy  and  already  owns  three 
cows  and  a  dozen  sheep,  and  is  about  as  likely  a  fellow 
as  Lucy  could  get.  They  are  all  happy  now  together. 
Mother  pours  out  the  tea,  but  Lucy  puts  in  the  sugar ; 
and  Colin  is  sure  he  never  drank  such  tea  in  his  life 
before.  His  appetite  is  not  very  good,  and  he  blushes 
scarlet  when  his  future  father-in-law  slyly  asks,  "  Eh, 
Colin  my  lad,  has  thee  no  fancy  for  a  bit  of  Lucy's  home- 
made bread  ?"  And  the  poor  fellow  gulps  it  down  be- 
cause she  made  it.  There  are  shrimps  and  onions,  and 
Colin  and  Lucy  are  both  fond  of  them,  but  neither 
touches  them.  "  Don't  be  afraid,"  says  the  tormenting 
father ;  "  they  won't  hurt  you." — "  Help  yourselves," 
says  mother ;  "  if  both  take  some,  it  will  be  all  the 
same."  And  Lucy  consents  and  Colin  agrees,  and 
shrimps  and  onions  begin  to  depart.  The  conversa- 
tion runs  along,  now  about  the  weather,  now  the  crops, 
now  Mary  Lemon's  lame  cow,  now  about  old  Crum- 
leigh's  wonderful  litter  of  pigs.  "  Never  heard  of  such 
a  thing  before  in  my  life,"  says  Lucy's  father,  and  Colin 
says  he  doesn't  think  he  has,  either.  Then  the  talk 
turns  to  making  butter,  rearing  ducks,  snubbing  the 
parson,  the  jockey-races,  the  new  steward,  the  comet, 


IO2  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

the  turkey-gobbler,  the  host  putting  in  the  refrain  every 
now  and  then,  "  Shrimps  and  onions  are  nice,  eh,  Colin  ? 
Thought  you  would  like  them,  and  what's  the  difference, 
as  mother  says,  when  you  both  have  them  ?"  And  by 
and  by' the  old  folks  leave  the  lovers  alone — the  good 
souls  remember  the  days  when  they  were  young — and 
another  sweet  hour  passes  away  nobody  knows  how 
fast.  Colin  cannot  believe  it  is  time  for  him  to  go 
home,  and  Lucy  wishes  he  was  not  obliged  to  go. 
The  old  folks  wonder  what  they  have  had  to  talk 
about  for  so  long,  but,  dear  hearts !  there  is  no  sub- 
ject so  suggestive  as  love,  and  lovers  could  talk  and 
talk  till  morning  and  never  get  tired.  But  they  part  at 
last ;  a  few  warm  kisses,  a  fond  embrace,  and  Colin  is 
on  his  way  home,  and  Lucy  is  helping  her  mother  clear 
up  the  house  or  is  putting  her  best  gown  and  scarf  away 
in  the  lavender-scented  clothes-press  till  next  Sunday 
or  to  the  next  time  Colin  comes.  This  is  a  sketch  that 
will  apply  to  any  age  with  but  little  alteration,  from  the 
days  long  since  forgotten  to  the  present  year  of  grace. 
The  happiness  is  beyond  expression;  the  innocence, 
purity  and  love  are  as  perfect  as  in  the  Eden  of  old 
or  in  the  Paradise  above. 

Not  always,  however,  are  things  so  smooth  and  pleas- 
ant as  this.  Sometimes  there  are  misunderstandings  and 
quarrellings.  This  to  the  point :  Strephon  and  Celia 
were  lovers.  He  was  gentle  and  good ;  she  was  lovely 
as  the  morning  star  set  in  the  dark  sky.  Nothing  had 
ever  arisen  to  mar  the  sweetness  or  to  disturb  the  joy  of 
their  love.  All  who  knew  them  said  they  were  born  for 
each  other.  If  he  saw  a  pout  upon  her  lips,  he  kissed  it 
away ;  if  she  saw  a  frown  upon  his  brow,  she  looked 


LOVE  IN   YE    OLDEN  TIME,  1 03 

upon  him  with  her  bright,  sunny  eyes  till  the  cloud  faded 
into  a  smile.  But  one  day  the  quarrel  came.  It  was 
over  a  trifle  not  worth  speaking  of,  but  the  words  that 
followed  were  sharp  as  lightning  and  the  looks  dark  as 
the  thunder-clouds.  And  bitter  thoughts  ran  through 
their  hearts — thoughts  that  threatened  death  to  their 
love  and  woe  to  their  future.  Never  would  he  speak  to 
her  again ;  nevermore  would  she  look  him  in  the  face. 
They  parted  for  ever.  She  stood  on  the  sedgy  bank  of 
the  brook  in  the  dying  sunlight.  Not  a  breath  of  wind 
ruffled  the  water  or  stirred  the  rushes  or  the  willows. 
The  lilies  in  the  stream  were  folding  up  their  white 
flowers  for  the  night,  and  here  and  there  a  lone  bird  was 
seeking  its  nest.  He  had  left  her ;  why  should  she  live 
longer  ?  Perhaps  if  she  drowned  herself  in  that  silent 
river  he  would  shed  a  tear  upon  her  grave,  perhaps  plant 
a  flower  at  her  feet.  They  said  that  brook  ran  like  a 
watery  way  to  the  sea :  perhaps  she  might  make  it  a 
path  to  a  better  and  truer  world.  Anyway,  life  was  not 
worth  having  without  Strephon,  and  better  die  now 
than  live  with  a  broken  heart.  Hush,  sad  thought ! 
The  sun  has  gone  to  rest  and  the  night-wind  begins  its 
weird  moaning  among  the  willows.  There  is  the  hoot- 
ing of  the  owl,  and  from  afar  comes  the  voice  of  howl- 
ing dog.  The  stream  flows  on  its  dismal  course,  mur- 
muring as  though  it  sang  a  death-song.  Oh  night  of 
gloom!  Oh  thought  of  woe!  Hush!  what  a  shriek 
and  plunge !  And  all  is  still  save  the  moaning  wind  and 
the  sobbing  water.  It  was  only  the  cry  of  the  night- 
hawk  and  the  splash  of  a  great  fish.  Celia  is  on  her 
way  home,  and  to-morrow  morning  she  will  take  from 
Strephon's  hand  a  bunch  of  sweet  violets  and  give  him 


104  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

a  kiss  far  more  sweet  and  fragrant  than  they.     Such  are 
the  storms  that  try  love's  happy  life. 

It  is,  I  suppose,  when  reviewing  all  the  changes  and 
chances  of  sweethearting  and  the  fortunes  and  accidents 
of  matrimony  that  some  men  make  up  their  minds  never 
to  marry.  Whether  they  deserve  praise  or  pity  is  a 
question  not  easily  answered.  Probably  a  bachelor  de- 
sires neither,  but  the  world  is  ever  disposed  to  be  gen- 
erous in  its  commendation  or  its  sympathy  to  those  who 
have  been  fortunate  or  unfortunate  enough  to  remain  in 
single  life.  On  the  whole,  the  world,  if  forced  to  judge, 
is  rather  censorious  than  otherwise.  It  thinks  that  it  is 
not  good  for  man  to  live  alone,  but  seeing  that  every 
man  was  a  bachelor  once,  and  would  have  remained  one 
had  he  not  married,  it  is  well  he  should  hesitate  in  ex- 
pressing an  opinion  either  way.  But  when  legislation 
utters  its  voice,  it  is  generally  against  the  bachelor. 
Perhaps  this  is  so  because  governing  bodies  are  nearly 
always  composed  of  married  men.  None  other  could 
sit  in  the  Jewish  Sanhedrin  or  in  the  Roman  Senate  or 
in  the  councils  of  Athens  and  Sparta.  The  ancients  had 
no  mercy  on  them.  During  the  winter,  in  Sparta,  they 
were  compelled  to  march  round  the  market-place  sing- 
ing a  song  composed  against  themselves  and  expressing 
the  justice  of  their  punishment.  In  Rome  heavy  taxes 
were  laid  upon  them,  and  in  England  they  were  once 
obliged  to  pay  a  fine  for  their  privilege.  Even  in  the 
present  day  every  remark  made  concerning  bachelordom 
is  not  complimentary.  There  is  a  conception  in  the 
popular  mind  that  a  bachelor  is  the  personification  of 
a  great  deal  that  is  not  desirable.  He  is  supposed  to  be 
mean,  cross,  grumpy,  unattractive,  ugly  in  soul  if  not 


LOVE  IN  YE   OLDEN  TIME.  1 05 

in  body,  selfish,  affectionless,  quarrelsome,  irreligious, 
conceited,  irreconcilable,  without  either  wit  or  humor 
and  with  more  than  his  rightful  share  of  human  wicked- 
ness. The  marriage  service  reminds  him  that  matrimony 
is  honorable  among  all  men,  and  therefore  his  state  is 
the  reverse.  How  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  lovable  he 
became  confirmed  in  his  singularity  no  one  knows. 
Various  answers  will  be  given — some  sagacious,  some 
spiteful,  some  safe,  some  sympathetic,  some  sarcastic, 
some  satirical,  and  none,  perhaps,  true.  His  example, 
at  any  rate,  is  bad ;  for  suppose  Adam  had  declined  Eve, 
what  would  have  happened  ?  The  women  look  shyly 
upon  one  who  has  so  persistently  resisted  the  charms 
of  their  sex,  and  the  Benedicts,  being  themselves  in  the 
freedom  or  the  bondage,  whichever  way  you  take  it,  of 
wedlock,  think  of  him  as  one  who  has  evaded  his  duty. 
And  he  thinks  it  is  hard  a  man  cannot  please  himself  in 
a  matter  of  this  kind.  Who  has  any  business  to  dictate 
to  him  what  he  shall  do  ?  Who  has  a  right  to  reproach 
him  for  having  been  luckier  than  the  most  of  men  ?  If 
flies  choose  to  run  into  spiders'  webs,  and  fish  to  seize 
the  baited  hook,  and  men  to  put  their  heads  into  a  noose, 
is  he  obliged  to  do  the  same  ?  And  as  to  women,  adds 
he,  it  all  depends  how  you  look  at  them.  Painters  and 
poets  see  all  the  perfections,  but  the  reality  and  the 
imagination  do  not  always  agree. 

Alack,  poor  bachelor ! 

One  loves  to  dream  of  the  merry  maidens  one  has 
known.  Beneath  the  greenwood  tree  in  such  a  sylvan 
nook  as  that  in  which  the  mischievous  and  witty  Rosa- 
lind cured  her  Orlando  of  his  sickness,  or  in  the  quiet 
of  such  a  moonlight  eventide  as  that  in  which  Lorenzo 


IO6  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

and  sweet  Jessica  told  anew  their  love,  or  in  a  rural  spot 
where  flowers  in  all  their  sweetness  and  their  grace 
abound,  like  unto  that  in  which  the  pretty  Perdita  and 
the  noble  Florizel  found  their  souls  knit  in  one,  or  be- 
side a  stream  like  that  in  which  the  love-deceived  Ophe- 
lia drowned  herself, — these  are  the  scenes  of  fancy's 
revels,  the  scenes  where  memory  and  imagination  walk 
hand  in  hand  together.  In  the  early  morning,  when  the 
dawn  with  rosy  fingers  unbars  the  gates  of  light;  or, 
better  still,  in  the  evening,  when  Venus  blushingly  lays 
herself  down  upon  her  bed  of  glory  in  the  west,  so 
softly  white,  so  sweetly  tinted;  or  in  the  stilly  night, 
when  upon  the  mountains,  with  their  pinnacles  of  snowy 
splendor  and  depths  of  sombre  gloom,  falls  the  stars' 
soft  light, — comes  the  happy  dream-time  when  mind 
and  heart  are  one.  Wandering  and  dreaming  through 
the  woodland  groves,  one  can  see  the  milk-white  palfrey 
of  fair  Florimell  breaking  through  the  thick  brush,  the 
golden  hair  of  the  beautiful  maiden  flowing  in  long 
streams  as  she  seeks  to  escape  from  the  false  Archimago. 
On  she  speeds  till  lost  to  sight  in  the  winding  lanes  of 
the  forest,  and  ere  long  comes  that  true  knight  Prince 
Arthur  to  save  the  maid  of  his  friend  Marinell.  And 
fancy  follows  her  to  the  cottage  built  of  sticks  and  reeds 
in  a  gloomy  glen  where  she  hoped  to  receive  shelter  and 
found  witchcraft.  Fear  gave  her  strength  and  speed, 
and  soon  we  see  her  tossed  on  ocean-wave,  ere  long  to 
fall  into  the  deep  dungeon  of  the  sea-monster  Proteus. 
Never  was  grief  so  terrible  as  that  of  Cymoent  over  the 
body  of  Marinell  or  of  Satyrane  over  the  loss  of  Flori- 
mell. But  in  that  fairyland  strange  things  are  brought 
about :  Marinell  is  restored  to  life,  Florimell  is  rescued 


LOVE  IN   YE    OLDEN  TIME. 

from  her  watery  prison,  and  in  the  fair  sunshine  their 
faith  is  rewarded  and  they  are  given  to  each  other.  As 
in  the  dreamy  drama  this  chaste  and  lovely  lady  fades 
into  the  fleeting  moments'  mists  others  no  less  beautiful 
and  fair  appear.  There  are  the  twin  daughters  of  Chryso- 
gone,  the  brave  Belphoebe  and  the  sweet  Amoretta,  and, 
like  stars  of  early  eve,  Britomart,  Columbell,  Hellenore, 
Alma  and  Una.  There  is  Sabrina,  who,  fleeing  from  her 
angry  step-dame,  Gwendolen,  plunged  into  the  Severn 
flood,  where  the  water-nymphs  bore  her  to  the  aged 
Nereus's  hall.  Here  was  she  made  goddess  of  the  river, 
and  now  the  shepherds  sing  of  her  maiden  gentleness, 
tell  how  she  visits  the  herds  in  the  twilight  meadows, 
and  as  a  votive  offering  to  her  throw  their  garland 
wreaths  of  pansies,  pinks  and  gaudy  daffodils  into  the 
stream.  And  who  can  forget  Herrick's  Julia,  with  her 
dainty  cherry  lips  and  silken  drapery ;  or  Keats's  Mad- 
eline as  in  the  wintry  moonlight,  pure  and  free,  she 
prays  for  Heaven's  grace ;  or  Coleridge's  Christabel  as 
she  rescues  the  high-born  Geraldine;  or  Fielding's 
Sophia,  the  spirit  of  truth  in  an  atmosphere  of  ill ;  or 
Boccaccio's  Griselda,  so  constant  in  her  love  and  obedi- 
ent in  her  life ;  or  Scott's  Lucy  Ashton,  the  beautiful 
and  ill-fated  bride  of  Lammermoor  ?  These  are  among 
the  maids  and  matrons  one  has  known.  They  flit  like 
fairies  before  the  mind.  They  are  as  real  as  though  they 
were  true  flesh  and  blood.  And  one  wonders  which  of 
them  all  one  loves  the  best.  We  like  Jessica,  the  sweet 
Christian  pagan,  better  than  the  intellectual  and  yellow- 
haired  Portia;  we  like  Juliet,  the  passionate,  whole- 
souled  girl  of  the  South,  better  than  Isabella,  Helena  or 
Beatrice,  though  we  prefer  Perdita  and  Miranda  to  the 


108  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

romantic  bride  of  Romeo.  Viola  appears  as  queen  of 
queens.  Florimell  is  the  first  of  Spenser's  creations,  but 
we  do  not  like  her  half  so  much  as  sweet  Anne  Page  or 
the  tender,  steadfast  Imogen  or  the  pure  Marina — per- 
haps because  they  have  a  more  distinct  personality.  As 
to  those  of  less  position,  we  are  not  sure  whether  we 
like  Agnes  Wickfield  better  than  Sophia  Western,  or 
Lorna  Doone  better  than  either.  Lydia  Languish, 
Emilia  Gauntlet,  Lydia  Melford,  Narcissa  Topehall  and 
Fanny  Andrews  are  very  well  in  their  way,  but  their 
way  is  a  long  way  from  the  fair  dames  who  live  in 
Shakespeare's  pages.  Moliere  has  nothing  for  us ;  his 
Lucille,  Dorimene,  Lucinde,  Melicerte  and  Daphne  are 
not  to  be  thought  of  with,  say,  Ben  Jonson's  Charis, 
Lodge's  Rosalynd  or  Chaucer's  Dorigen.  As  we  cease 
our  dreaming  there  comes  upon  the  scene  an  endless 
procession  of  merry  maidens  whom  we  have  known — 
the  fair  Emmeline,  free  Dowsabell,  Maid  Marion,  peer- 
less Rosamond,  Bessee  of  Bednall-Green,  and  the  Nut- 
brown  Maid,  whose  praises  abide  in  minstrel's  song; 
but  we  turn  away  and  ask,  "  How  can  a  man  remain  a 
bachelor  in  the  presence  of  such  beauty?" 

Alack,  poor  bachelor ! 

And  now  I  haste  to  the  end  of  the  subject — to  the  day 
and  the  ceremony  that  concluded  and  crowned  the  vision 
of  love  in  the  olden  time.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  there 
are  old  bachelors  and  old  maids,  it  is  said  that  married 
life  is  the  mystery  into  which  all  who  are  not  in  seek  to 
enter  and  all  who  are  in  seek  to  leave.  This,  if  true, 
proves  not  only  the  desirability  and  the  painfulness  of 
matrimony,  but  also  the  weakness  of  human  nature ;  for 
neither  advice  nor  experience  avails  in  the  matter.  St. 


LOVE  IN   YE   OLDEN  TIME.  109 

Jerome  mentions  a  widow  that  married  her  twenty-sec- 
ond husband,  who  in  his  turn  had  been  married  to  twen- 
ty wives ;  a  gentleman  died  at  Bordeaux  in  1772  who 
had  been  married  sixteen  times ;  so  that  the  wise  saw, 
"  A  burnt  child  dreads  the  fire,"  does  not  apply  to  mat- 
rimony. Nor  should  it,  according  to  our  doctrine  and 
to  the  consensus  of  mankind. 

June  was  the  favorite  month  for  weddings,  and  Sunday 
the  favorite  day ;  May  and  Friday  were  ever  thought  un- 
lucky. The  old  Jews,  as  a  rule,  married  maidens  on  a 
Wednesday  and  widows  on  a  Thursday.  A  bright,  clear 
morning  was  deemed  propitious,  for  happy  is  the  bride 
that  the  sun  shines  on.  The  church-bells  rang  their 
merry  peals  and  the  whole  village  prepared  to  keep 
holiday,  for  such  an  event  occurred  only  once  in  a  while. 
Long  before  the  sun  arose  the  preparations  were  going 
on.  The  girls  were  off  to  the  woods  and  the  meadows 
at  daybreak  to  gather  flowers  and  rushes  to  strew  in  the 
pathway  of  the  bridal-party,  and  while  the  older  people 
were  getting  the  house  ready  for  the  feast  the  young  men 
were  preparing  for  the  sports  and  the  pastimes  on  the 
village  green.  The  bride  was  arrayed  in  her  gay  gar- 
ments— generally  white,  in  token  of  purity — and  upon 
her  head  was  placed  a  garland  of  flowers  as  a  sign  of 
her  queenly  station.  Our  garland  consists  of  orange- 
blossoms,  but  in  the  olden  time  it  was  made  of  myrtle 
or  roses  or  wheat-ears.  In  some  lands  it  was  even  made 
of  prickles,  to  signify  to  the  husband  that  he  had  tied 
himself  to  a  thorny  pleasure.  Everybody  had  posies  of 
maiden-blushes,  primroses,  violets,  pansies,  rosemary  or 
bay.  Sometimes  festoons  and  arches  of  evergreen  were 
made,  in  which  laurel,  denoting  triumph,  was  conspicu- 


IIO  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

ous.  The  bridegroom  was  taken  to  the  church  porch 
by  the  bridesmaids,  and  the  bride  by  the  groomsmen. 
The  ceremony  did  not  take  place  in  the  church,  but  at 
the  door,  till  after  the  Reformation.  There  the  happy 
couple  stood  before  the  village  parson,  and  there  the 
plighted  troth  was  redeemed  and  the  sentence  spoken 
that  made  them  man  and  wife — in  words  that  have  been 
used  in  the  Church  of  England  for  more  than  a  thousand 
years.  Oh  how  wildly,  cheerily,  gladly,  the  bells  pealed 
out  in  the  church-tower !  And  the  minstrels  played,  and 
the  neighbors  cheered,  and  showers  of  roses  or  of  wheat 
were  poured  upon  the  bridal  pair,  just  as  we  cast  rice,  in 
token  of  prosperity.  All  were  happy.  The  bride  looked 
upon  her  wedding-ring,  made  of  pure  gold,  to  tell  her 
that  her  lord's  love  was  pure  and  true  and  endless  as  the 
ring  was  endless.  Friends  told  her  that  as  the  ring  wore 
out  so  her  cares  would  wear  away :  I  am  not  sure  they 
told  the  truth.  She  gave  her  favors — gloves,  ribbons, 
scarfs  and  garters — to  the  young  men  and  maidens. 
She  cut  the  wedding-cake — an  institution  of  unknown 
antiquity — and  the  maid  that  was  lucky  enough  to  re- 
ceive the  first  piece  would  be  the  next  bride.  The  bridal 
ale  was  drunk,  and  in  the  afternoon  there  were  dancing 
and  sporting  till  evensong.  If  there  were  an  elder  un- 
married sister,  she  would  have  to  dance  barefooted  lest 
she  should  die  an  old  maid ;  the  others  all  danced  and 
played  in  green  stockings.  There  were  fun  and  merry- 
making— perhaps  more  and  of  another  character  than 
we  should  approve  of,  but  our  forefathers  were  blunt, 
plain  folk  overflowing  with  good-humor  and  animal 
spirits.  When  the  bridegroom  blundered  and  blushed, 
as  bridegrooms  sometimes  will,  they  cheered  and  laughed 


LOVE  IN   YE    OLDEN  TIME.  Ill 

with  a  freedom  and  a  heartiness  that  to  him  must  have 
been  anything  but  pleasant.  The  bride  was  encouraged 
in  like  manner  till  she  was  as  red  as  a  rose  and  glad  to 
hide  her  face  under  the  care-cloth. 

Ah,  well !  this  was  the  end  of  romance,  and  now  be- 
gan real  life.  Shall  I  say  that  in  that  life  there  were 
charms  and  graces  that  the  romance  knew  nothing  of? 
Yes,  indeed ;  for,  beautiful  as  it  is  to  see  a  lad  and  a  lassie 
love  as  only  lads  and  lassies  can  love,  there  is  a  more 
beautiful  picture  still — to  behold  an  aged  couple  who 
have  lived  and  loved  through  long  years,  whose  love  has 
withstood  the  test  of  time  and  been  purified  and  made 
more  precious  in  the  fires  of  life's  trials.  They  see  in 
their  own  children  the  return  of  days  long,  long  gone 
by ;  and  when  they  close  their  eyes  upon  this  world,  it 
is  to  enter  into  the  renewed  and  eternal  love  and  life  of 
a  brighter  and  a  better  world. 

And  here  we  leave  "  Love  in  ye  Olden  Time,"  and  in 
doing  so  I  can  only  say  of  every  newly-wedded  pair, 

May  life  to  them  be  like  a  summer  river 

Where  laughing  ripples  kissed  by  sunbeams  dance, 

And  reeds  and  rushes  moved  by  soft  winds  quiver, 
Till  Nature  falls  into  a  dreamy  trance  ! 

May  life  to  them  be  like  the  clouds  of  even 

Lighted  with  all  the  splendor  of  the  setting  sun, 

When  o'er  the  earth  there  comes  the  peace  of  heaven — 
The  blessed  rest  that  crowns  a  work  well  done ! 

May  life  to  them  be  like  a  song  of  glory 

Such  as  the  joyous  lark  sings  at  heaven's  gate, 

Or  victors  tell  in  their  glad  thrilling  story 
Of  triumphs  won  upon  the  fields  of  fate ! 

8 


112  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

And  when  that  life  shall  reach  the  deep  sea's  flowing, 
And  earth's  bright  day  shall  make  its  shadows  long, 

May  they  rejoice  in  love's  warm,  earnest  glowing, 
While  murmuring  wavelets  chant  the  evensong. 


CHAPTER    V. 


"  He  that  hath  Oxford  seen,  for  beauty,  grace, 
And  healthiness,  ne'er  saw  a  better  place." 

To  Oxford  ! 

Train  from  Moreton-in-the-Marsh  at  eleven  in  the 
forenoon;  seven  miles  from  Shipston  to  the  railway- 
station. 

Shall  we  walk  or  drive  ? 

Who  could  resist  the  temptation  of  walking  in  the 
gentle  morning  through  a  country  pleasant  to  the  eye, 
and  with  one  who  knew  and  loved  every  step  of  the  way 
and  was  both  lively  in  conversation  and  keen  in  obser- 
vation ?  So,  passing  up  the  Swan  lane,  we  began  our 
early  journey.  A  lovely  day,  the  sun  veiled  now  and 
then  with  fleecy  clouds,  birds  singing  in  the  hedges  and 
trees  by  the  wayside,  the  grass  by  the  road  fresh  and 
springy  to  the  tread,  and  everything  such  as  to  make 
the  heart  beat  with  delight  and  the  mind  dwell  upon 
pleasant  reminiscences  and  mirthful  suggestions. 

The  road  runs  about  three  miles  till  it  crosses  the 
famous  Fossway,  the  great  Roman  street  already  spoken 
of  in  these  pages.  The  traveller  to  Moreton  turns  by 
the  Porto  Bello  and  walks  where  the  imperial  legions 
once  rode.  A  little  distance  on  is  an  inn,  the  Golden 

113 


114  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

Cross,  down  in  a  hollow  by  the  old  tramway-track  from 
Moreton  to  Stratford.  Once  it  was  a  busy  place ;  now 
the  sign  is  undecipherable  and  an  ass  eats  the  weeds 
which  grow  about  the  front  door.  The  steep  bit  of  hill 
leading  down  by  it  is  somewhat  awkward  for  drivers  of 
heavy  wagons ;  even  lighter  vehicles  have  to  be  guided 
carefully.  In  Egyptian  darkness  a  trap  laden  with  three 
happy-hearted  fellows  was  once  dragging  its  way  up. 
They  were  laughing  and  joking,  when  suddenly  one  of 
them  cried  out,  "  Where  is  the  horse  ?"  Some  part  of 
the  harness  had  broken,  and  the  horse  was  quietly  walk- 
ing out  of  the  shafts ;  another  step,  and  the  riders  would 
have  been  thrown  out,  and  perhaps  killed.  It  is  a  place 
where  necks  have  been  broken.  There  is,  indeed,  an 
uncanny  suspicion  that  some  who  have  died  there  come 
back  again ;  any  way,  most  people  who  go  by,  especially 
in  the  evening,  find  it  necessary  to  refresh  their  spirits  at 
the  Golden  Cross.  Another  high  hill  lies  before  them, 
on  the  right  side  of  which  is  the  village  of  Stretton. 
Pluck  a  handful  of  wild  flowers  by  the  way  and  watch 
the  honey-bee  settling  on  them  utterly  regardless  of 
your  presence.  In  the  little  brook  crossing  the  road 
have  been  found  trout ;  indeed,  in  days  gone  by  boys 
used  to  tickle  them  there.  The  operation  is  simple. 
Watch  a  fish  lying  in  the  mingling  light  and  shade  near 
the  bank  or  under  the  bridge ;  lie  down  noiselessly  on 
the  earth  and  slip  the  bared  arm  into  the  water  under 
the  fish ;  tickle  him :  he  seems  to  enjoy  the  operation, 
and  gradually  rises  to  the  surface ;  then,  when  near 
enough,  strike  the  hand  hard  and  fling  him  out  on  the 
bank.  Neither  Dame  Juliana  Berners  nor  Izaak  Walton 
has  anything  to  say  upon  this  pastime ;  notwithstanding, 


AT  OXFORD.  115 

the  trout  is  "  a  right  deyntous  fyssh,"  and  tickling  is 
second  only  to  angling. 

But  we  must  move  on. 

This  is  Moreton-in-the-Marsh — a  small  town  consist- 
ing of  one  wide  street  half  a  mile  long  and  containing  a 
church,  a  manufactory  and  a  railway-station.  We  may 
not  tarry;  here  comes  the  train. 

Away  across  the  quiet  Oxfordshire  country ;  pleasant, 
if  not  romantic.  Once  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  Blenheim, 
the  seat  of  the  duke  of  Marlborough.  We  have  been 
there.  The  grounds  are  exquisite,  gardens  and  park 
perfect;  the  house  is  heavy  and  ugly.  Close  by  is 
Woodstock,  the  town  of  cheerful  memories,  where  kings 
dwelt  and  once  Fair  Rosamond  was  concealed  in  a 
maze.  Here  Henry  III.  was  nearly  murdered  by  a  false 
priest;  the  wretch  was  caught,  and  torn  to  pieces  by 
wild  horses.  Here  Edward  the  Black  Prince  was  born 
and  the  princess  Elizabeth  imprisoned  by  her  sister 
Mary.  The  Puritans  were  troubled  by  the  tricks  of  the 
"  merrie  devil,"  who  turned  out  to  have  more  of  earth 
about  him  than  ghosts  gensrally  have.  Not  one  stone 
of  the  royal  palace  now  remains ;  only  the  name  and 
the  memories  abide.  Chaucer  would  not  know  his  old 
home  were  he  to  go  back  again ;  Alfred  the  Great  and 
Henry  II.  would  be  lost. 

The  words  of  Camden  concerning  Oxford  have  the 
same  force  and  truth  now  as  they  had  when  written  in 
the  reign  of  James  I. :  "A  delicate  and  most  beautiful 
city,  whether  we  respect  the  neatness  of  private  build- 
ings, or  the  stateliness  of  publick  structures,  or  the 
healthy  and  pleasant  situation.  For  the  plain  on  which 
it  stands  is  walled  in,  as  it  were,  with  hills  of  wood, 


Il6  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

which,  keeping  out  on  one  side  the  pestilential  south 
wind,  on  the  other  the  tempestuous  west,  admit  only 
the  purifying  east,  and  the  north,  that  disperses  all  un- 
wholsome  vapors." 

The  city  and  the  university  are  of  considerable  antiq- 
uity, but  both  have  been  shorn  of  much  of  their  re- 
puted age.  Tradition  says  that  the  city  was  founded 
about  a  thousand  years  before  the  birth  of  Christ  by 
Memphric,  king  of  the  ancient  Britons,  and  was  named 
Caer-Memphric.  Other  legends  connect  it  with  Brute 
the  Trojan  and  the  Druids,  but  these  stories  are  utterly 
without  foundation.  In  like  manner  the  university  has 
been  ascribed  to  Alfred  the  Great,  and  some  have 
claimed  that  the  place  was  a  seat  of  learning  in  pre- 
Roman  times ;  these  stories  are  also  inventions. 

It  was  in  or  before  the  ninth  century  that  a  religious 
house  was  established  some  few  miles  from  the  then  an- 
cient Dorchester,  the  see-town  of  the  great  Mercian  dio- 
cese, near  to  the  shallow  channels  close  by  the  confluence 
of  the  Cherwell  and  the  Isis.  The  house  was  dedicated 
to  St.  Frideswyde,  and  around  it  grew  a  village.  A 
school  for  youth  also  sprang  up  in  connection  with  the 
priory.  In  the  latter  part  of  the  ninth  century  it  is 
probable  a  mint  was  established  there,  for  coins  have 
been  discovered  of  that  date  with  the  legend  "  Oksna- 
forda."  The  earliest  undoubted  mention  of  the  town  is 
in  the  English  Chronicle,  under  the  year  912.  From 
that  time  Oxford  speedily  rises  in  importance.  The 
kings  were  frequent  visitors ;  Edward  the  Elder  died 
there  in  924  and  Edmund  Ironsides  in  1017,  which 
gave  rise  to  the  idea  that  it  was  an  ill  thing  for  a  king 
to  enter  Oxford.  The  place  was  besieged  and  burnt  by 


AT  OXFORD.  117 

the  Danes  in  1010,  and  in  1013  submitted  to  Sweyn. 
Here,  in  1018,  the  great  Canute  held  a  Witanagemot  in 
which  the  laws  of  Edgar  were  adopted,  and  in  1036  here 
Harold  I.  was  crowned.  During  the  reign  of  Edward 
the  Confessor  the  town  continued  to  flourish,  and  in 
1067  made  a  bold,  though  unsuccessful,  resistance  to 
William  the  Conquerer.  When  taken  by  him,  he  gave 
it  to  Robert  d'Oily,  who  about  1071  built  a  castle.  In 
1086  the  town  contained  seven  hundred  and  twenty-one 
houses,  of  which  four  hundred  and  seventy-eight  had 
been  so  damaged  by  the  siege  nineteen  years  earlier  as 
to  be  untaxable,  and  of  the  mansions  one  hundred  and 
ninety-two  were  habitable  and  one  hundred  and  six 
waste.  The  population  was  then  about  seventeen  hun- 
dred. But  under  the  strong  government  of  D'Oily  the 
place  recovered  itself,  and  from  that  time  on  occupied  a 
high  position  in  the  history  of  England.  The  seat  of 
the  Mercian  bishopric  had  long  since  been  removed  to 
Lincoln,  and  it  was  not  till  the  Reformation  that  the 
diocese  of  Oxford  was  founded.  Of  the  part  the  city 
took  in  the  great  struggles  of  the  reigns  of  Stephen  and 
Charles  I.  it  is  unnecessary  to  speak.  Loyalty  and  con- 
servatism have  ever  been  the  distinguishing  features  of 
Oxford. 

It  is  probable  that  the  school  connected  with  St. 
Frideswyde's  house  continued  and  increased.  It  was, 
like  all  monastic  schools,  simple  in  its  aim  and  small  in 
its  scope.  The  scholars  were  largely  boys.  However, 
it  is  not  till  the  reign  of  Henry  I.  that  we  have  certain 
information  of  the  existence  and  popularity  of  the 
schools  at  Oxford.  Why  teachers  and  scholars  gathered 
there  we  do  not  know,  nor  does  the  community  come 


Il8  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

into  prominence  before  the  reign  of  John.  In  1238  the 
schools  are  spoken  of  as  the  University  of  Oxford, 
though  it  is  not  known  that  there  was  any  charter  of 
incorporation.  Up  to  1268  the  university  had  no  build- 
ings of  its  own  ;  then  the  colleges  began  to  come  into 
being,  and  Oxford  was  recognized  as  the  second  uni- 
versity of  Christendom.  Indeed,  the  time  came  when  it 
outshone  its  rival  of  Paris. 

Notwithstanding  the  comparatively  recent  origin  of 
the  city  and  the  university,  one  of  their  first  attractions 
is  that  of  age.  There  is  that  subtile  charm  in  the  very 
atmosphere  which  only  a  noble  history  and  a  delightful 
romance  can  give.  One  becomes  conscious  that  this 
place  is  the  glory  of  England,  enwoven  in  all  that  is 
great  and  soul-quickening  in  her  life,  the  home  and 
source  of  her  intellectual  and  social  power,  the  shrine 
of  exalted  and  excellent  scholarship,  and  the  abode  of 
that  beneficent  spirit  which,  while  ever  pressing  onward 
into  the  new,  lovingly  and  gently  cherishes  and  seeks  to 
preserve  all  that  is  good  and  true  in  the  old. 

A  pity  it  is  that  the  visitor  enters  the  city  by  the  rail- 
way, for,  though  the  Great  Western  station  stands  on 
the  site  of  the  ancient  abbey  of  Osney,  neither  it  nor  the 
way  into  the  town  has  any  attraction.  On  the  contrary, 
an  unfavorable  impression  is  apt  to  be  made,  and,  instead 
of  a  quiet,  studious-looking  place,  one  is  disappointed 
with  the  bustle  and  noise  of  a  modern  one.  Drive  along 
the  Cowley  road  and  over  Magdalen  bridge,  and  nothing 
can  exceed  the  satisfaction  which  Oxford  can  give.  Stand 
on  the  old  bridge,  quaint  with  its  balusters,  and  look 
upon  the  still,  shaded  waters  of  the  Cherwell — a  narrow 
stream  peaceful  beneath  the  summer  sunshine,  its  smooth 


AT  OXFORD.  119 

surface  gently  rippled  by  a  punt  or  boat  occasionally 
passing  up  or  down,  and  its  onward  flow  suggesting  its 
course  from  the  hills  of  Warwickshire  to  the  royal  river, 
by  ancient  Banbury  and  the  Confessor's  birthplace,  Islip, 
into  Oxford  itself.  The  building  on  the  right  side  of 
the  street  is  Magdalen  College,  the  first  of  many  noble 
structures,  and  the  most  beautiful  of  them  all.  It  was 
built  by  Bishop  Waynflete  of  Winchester  about  1480, 
the  society  having  been  formally  chartered  by  him  some 
years  earlier,  and  was  dedicated  as  "  Seinte  Marie  Maug- 
dalene  College  to  the  honor  and  praise  of  Christ  cruci- 
fied, the  Blessed  Virgin  his  Mother,  St.  Mary  Maugda- 
lene  and  the  various  apostles  and  martyrs,  the  chief  of 
whom  are  patrons  of  the  cathedral  of  Winchester." 
Among  its  scholars  have  been  many  bishops  and  states- 
men, not  the  least  of  whom  was  the  great  Wolsey.  Its 
position  in  the  university  is  supported  by  its  renown  and 
its  wealth — an  annual  income  from  endowments  of  over 
forty-one  thousand  pounds  and  the  presentation  to  forty- 
two  benefices.  Its  most  distinguishing  architectural  fea- 
ture is  the  stately  tower.  Here  on  the  morning  of  May- 
day an  ancient  and  pleasing  ceremony  is  performed.  On 
the  summit  of  the  tower  assemble  singers  in  surplices 
and  members  of  the  university.  "  As  the  last  stroke  of 
five  dies  upon  the  breeze  all  heads  are  reverently  uncov- 
ered, and  the  singers,  amid  deep  silence,  pour  forth  the 
solemn  old  Latin  hymn  in  honor  of  the  Holy  Trinity, 
'  Te  Deum  patrem  colimus ;' "  after  which,  the  pealing 
bells  welcome  in  the  spring. 

It  is  not  possible  in  the  few  pages  which  can  be  given 
to  Oxford  to  mention,  much  less  speak  of,  its  many 
stately  buildings,  its  halls,  colleges  and  churches  and 


120  THE   HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

their  many  historical  and  architectural  features.  There 
is  not  a  corner  in  the  older  part  of  the  city  which  is  not 
full  of  interest.  Beyond  Magdalen,  High  street  opens 
in  all  its  dignity  and  beauty.  On  the  right  in  rapid  suc- 
cession come  St.  Edmund's  Hall,  Queen's  College,  All 
Souls'  College,  St.  Mary's  church  and  All  Saints'  church, 
while  at  the  back  of  these,  like  choice  jewels  hid  away 
in  careful  seclusion,  are  such  places  as  New  College, 
Hartford  College,  the  Radcliffe  and  Bodleian  Libraries, 
the  theatre,  Brasenose,  Lincoln,  Jesus  and  Exeter  Col- 
leges. The  other  side  of  High  street  has  the  schools, 
University  College  and  St.  Mary's  Hall,  with  Merton, 
Corpus  Christi  and  Oriel  Colleges  beyond.  High  street 
is  crossed  at  right  angles  with  Cornmarket  and  St.  Al- 
date's  streets,  St.  Martin's  church  standing  at  the  inter- 
section. Some  distance  to  the  north  from  this  cross, 
known  as  Carfax,  are  Baliol,  Trinity  and  St.  John's  Col- 
leges, the  street  widening  out  into  the  noble  tree-lined 
thoroughfare  of  St.  Giles.  Hereabouts  is  the  "  Martyrs' 
Memorial,"  a  Gothic  structure  after  the  fashion  of  one 
of  the  Eleanor  crosses,  in  memory  of  Latimer,  Ridley 
and  Cranmer.  The  three  martyrs  are  represented  by 
statues  placed  in  the  niches.  On  the  north  side  is  the 
following  inscription : 

"  To  the  Glory  of  God,  and  in  grateful  commemoration  of  His 
servants,  Thomas  Cranmer,  Nicholas  Ridley,  Hugh  Latimer,  Prel- 
ates of  the  Church  of  England,  who,  near  this  spot,  yielded  their 
bodies  to  be  burned,  bearing  witness  to  the  Sacred  Truths  which 
they  had  affirmed  and  maintained  against  the  errors  of  the  Church 
of  Rome,  and  rejoicing  that  to  them  it  was  given  not  only  to  be- 
lieve on  Christ,  but  also  to  suffer  for  his  sake,  this  monument  was 
erected  by  public  subscription,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  God, 
1841." 


AT  OXFORD.  121 

Since  the  memorial  was  built,  while  the  honesty  of  Lat- 
imer  and  the  piety  of  Ridley  have  remained  undenied, 
the  character  of  Cranmer  has  been  severely  and  to  his 
discredit  examined,  and  the  cause  for  which  they  died 
widely  questioned.  There  is  no  little  irony  in  the  whole 
thing  when  seen  in  the  light  of  facts.  Oxford  has  not 
been  altogether  faithful  to  the  spirit  which  dictated  the 
inscription  and  raised  the  monument.  The  martyrdom 
is  supposed  to  have  taken  place  some  short  distance 
from  the  cross,  near  the  corner  of  Broad  street.  Lat- 
imer  and  Ridley  were  burnt  on  October  16,  1555.  From 
the  tower  of  St.  Michael's  church,  close  by,  Cranmer 
saw  them  perish ;  he  did  not  hear  what  the  world  has 
never  forgotten  since — the  words  of  good  old  Latimer : 
"  Be  of  good  comfort,  Master  Ridley,  and  play  the  man. 
We  shall  this  day  light  such  a  candle  by  God's  grace  in 
England  as  I  trust  shall  never  be  put  out." 

It  took  three  loads  of  wood-fagots  and  one  of  furze 
to  burn  these  men ;  the  total  cost  of  the  execution  was 
twenty-five  shillings.  Before  the  year  was  out,  Dr. 
Palmer,  one  of  the  most  zealous  of  their  persecutors, 
became  a  Protestant,  and  in  the  following  July  he  suf- 
fered the  same  penalty.  On  the  2 1st  of  March,  1556, 
a  dull,  rainy  day,  Archbishop  Cranmer  was  burnt  on 
the  same  spot,  the  same  stake,  chain  and  staple  being 
used,  and  the  cost  amounting  to  twelve  shillings.  The 
bailiffs  of  the  city  charged  the  government  sixty-three 
pounds,  but  the  zeal  which  was  vigorous  enough  to 
send  men  to  the  stake  was  not  so  ready  to  pay  the 
charges  thereof.  Lord  Williams  of  Thame  made  him- 
self conspicuous  by  drowning  the  archbishop's  words 
with  his  shouts  of  "  Make  short !  make  short !"  It  was 


122  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

not  long  before  the  reactionary  party  discovered  their 
mistake  in  laying  hands  upon  so  high  a  dignitary  as 
Cranmer.  They  erred  fatally:  from  the  time  the  blood 
of  the  primate  of  England  was  shed  the  return  of  Eng- 
land to  the  Roman  obedience  became  impossible.  Rome 
stung  many  a  noble  soul  in  those  days,  but  she  lost  her 
sting  when  she  hurried  to  death  the  man  who,  worthy 
or  unworthy,  was  undoubtedly  at  the  head  and  front  of 
the  English  Reformation. 

Times  were  rude  and  rough,  and  we  must  admit  the 
fact  that  Protestants  persecuted  Romanists  as  readily  as 
their  opponents  persecuted  them :  these  very  men  who 
were  burnt  on  the  street  at  Oxford  had  helped  and  sanc- 
tioned the  martyrdom  of  others.  Both  sides  regarded 
heresy  as  the  most  dangerous  of  all  sins ;  stealing  meant 
the  loss  of  property,  and  murder  the  loss  of  life,  but 
false  doctrines  involved  the  ruin  of  the  immortal  soul. 
They  believed  what  they  professed :  what  more  lauda- 
ble work,  then,  could  there  be  than  the  silencing  for 
ever  of  men  who  were  leading  people  to  everlasting 
perdition?  We  shiver  at  the  recital  of  the  extreme 
deeds  done;  we  could  not  believe  them  in  any  way 
excusable  did  we  not  know  that  even  in  this  our  day 
the  most  amiable  feelings  and  the  most  friendly  inter- 
course possible  do  not  exist  between  those  who  follow 
Rome  and  those  who  follow  Geneva.  Which  hates  and 
dreads  the  other  most  it  is  not  easy  to  say. 

In  St.  Giles's  street  is  held  every  September  "  the  holi- 
day of  the  season,"  a  large  business  and  pleasure  fair — 
a  veritable  relic  of  other  times.  The  good  saint  was  an 
anchorite  in  the  forest  of  Languedoc  in  the  seventh  cen- 
tury. There  he  was  supported  by  a  hind  which  came 


AT  OXFORD.  123 

daily  to  give  him  its  milk ;  in  a  similar  manner  ravens 
fed  Elijah  at  Cherith,  and  one  of  the  supporters  to  the 
arms  of  the  city  of  Edinburgh  is  the  figure  of  St.  Giles's 
hind.  He  was  the  patron-saint  of  cripples  and  was  held 
in  great  veneration,  many  churches  being  dedicated  to 
his  memory.  A  good  citizen  of  the  Scotch  capital  once 
bought  at  a  great  price  an  arm-bone  of  St.  Giles.  All 
about  the  hermit  himself  has  long  since  been  forgotten 
by  the  people  who  frequent  this  famous  fair,  if,  indeed, 
they  ever  knew  of  him.  As  of  everything  else  of  by- 
gone days,  the  cry  is,  "  The  fair  is  not  what  it  was." 
The  glory  has  not  wholly  departed,  but  it  is  only  the 
old,  gray-haired  folk  who  can  tell  the  story  of  its  lost 
splendor — of  the  times  when  from  all  parts  of  the 
country  came  the  carriers'  wains  laden  with  men  and 
women,  and  rustic  music  livened  the  place,  and  stalls 
and  shows  were  many  and  well  frequented,  and  the 
ale  ran  like  water. 

We  turn  back  to  Carfax,  and,  passing  down  St.  Al- 
date's  street,  enter  the  noble  quadrangle  of  Christ 
Church.  This  is  the  largest  college  in  Oxford  and  was 
founded  by  Cardinal  Wolsey.  Everything  about  it  bears 
witness  to  the  magnificence  of  the  founder — a  man  as 
renowned  for  his  tastes  in  art  and  architecture  and  for 
his  liberality  in  the  founding  of  schools  as  for  his  ability 
and  integrity  as  a  statesman.  The  massive  tower  con- 
tains, on  the  outside,  niches,  in  one  of  which  is  a  statue 
of  the  cardinal,  and  inside  a  remarkable  staircase  lead- 
ing up  into  the  glorious  dining-hall.  This  hall  is  second 
only  to  those  of  Westminster  and  Hampton  Court  Pal- 
ace. Its  roof  is  lofty  and  open ;  upon  the  walls  hang 
portraits  of  Christ-Church  men — a  host  such  as  not 


124  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

only  a  college,  but  a  nation  also,  may  well  be  proud  of. 
Henry  VIII.,  Queen  Elizabeth  and  Cardinal  Wolsey  are 
there ;  Bishop  Fell  of  rhythmic  memory,  and  old 
Schoolmaster  Busby,  who  would  not  take  off  his  hat 
before  the  king  in  the  presence  of  the  boys  lest  they 
should  imagine  there  was  a  greater  man  in  the  realm 
than  he,  and  so  discipline  come  to  naught ;  the  three 
divines  who  read  the  Liturgy  in  the  time  of  its  prohi- 
bition under  Cromwell ;  and  many  others  famous  in  the 
pages  of  history. 

A  few  steps  from  the  hall  is  the  cathedral,  an  old 
building  partly  founded  upon  the  site  of  St.  Frideswyde's 
chapel.  In  its  tower  are  "the  bonny  Christ-Church 
bells."  Outside  are  the  noble  and  exquisite  walks,  one 
along  the  banks  of  the  river,  another  leading  to  the 
water,  and  another — one  of  the  loveliest  avenues  in 
England — called  the  Broad  Walk.  Many  are  the  at- 
tractions of  Christ  Church ;  some  will  admire  "  Great 
Tom,"  the  famous  bell,  and  others  will  love  the  quiet, 
studious  air  of  the  place. 

Oxford  has  a  history  as  strange  as  it  is  interesting, 
but  farther  into  that  we  may  not  venture.  Even  as  we 
walk  through  its  quaint  streets,  so  fragrant  with  the 
aroma  of  olden  time,  we  have  to  content  ourselves  with 
picturing  it  when  in  its  mediaeval  glory — a  glory  not 
greater  than  that  it  has  now,  only  more  romantic.  But 
there  is  Godstow,  two  miles  away,  in  the  nunnery  of 
which  the  fair  and  frail  Rosamond  spent  her  last  days. 
There  is  Cumnor  Hall,  three  miles  away,  where  Amy 
Robsart  died — murdered,  some  said,  by  her  unworthy 
husband,  the  earl  of  Leicester.  And  there  are  other 
spots,  each  with  its  own  story  inwoven  in  the  greater 


AT  OXFORD.  125 

thread  of  England's  life.  Oxford  has  had  a  noble  past ; 
its  present  is  of  rarest  splendor,  and  its  future,  edged 
with  the  radiance  flowing  down  the  centuries,  will  have 
a  magnificence  unequalled. 

Among  the  people  who  in  years  gone  by  were  known 
at  Oxford  was  one  who,  though  a  plain,  simple  country 
shopkeeper,  had  no  small  share  of  ready  wit  and  keen, 
sharp  thought.  He  lived  in  a  town  some  twelve  or 
more  miles  away,  and  to  his  shop  he  added  the  work  of 
carrier.  Twice  a  week,  on  Wednesdays  and  Saturdays, 
he  drove  to  Oxford  and  transacted  such  business  as  was 
entrusted  to  him.  In  the  city  he  put  up  at  the  "  Crown," 
an  old  hostel  with  which  Shakespeare  was  somehow  or 
other  mixed  up.  He  was  a  little  man,  stout,  ruddy, 
with  small  blue  eyes,  and  wore  a  broad-brimmed  beaver, 
a  velveteen  coat  and  knee-breeches.  His  humor  was 
great ;  such  a  fact  as  that  which  happened  in  the  elec- 
tions of  this  summer,  in  which  two  Irish  members,  Mr. 
O'Hea  and  Mr.  O'Shea,  failed  to  get  re-elected,  would 
have  furnished  him  with  fun  for  hours.  In  the  early 
days  of  the  Oxford  movement,  he,  being  a  man  of  ex- 
traordinary common  sense,  proclaimed  himself  in  fullest 
sympathy  with  the  leaders  of  the  party,  and  many  a  bat- 
tle he  fought  behind  his  counter,  in  his  wagon  and  over 
his  ale  concerning  a  celibate  clergy,  fasts  and  services 
on  week-days  and  candles  in  the  sunshine.  But  he  was 
confounded  when  his  rector  refused  a  white  model  of  a 
horse  such  as  veterinary  surgeons  have  in  their  offices, 
which  he  in  the  enthusiasm  of  his  soul  gave  to  the 
church.  Why  doves,  eagles  and  lambs  should  be  al- 
lowed in  the  church,  and  not  horses,  was  a  puzzle  to 
him — equal  in  mystery  to  the  fact  that  ministers  in  their 


126  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

sermons  speak  of  roses,  lilies  and  stars,  but  never  of 
onions  or  potatoes.  Some  of  the  stories  he  told  jogging 
along  the  country  road  from  Oxford  are  too  good  to 
be  forgotten.  There  was  the  squire  whose  keeper 
caught  a  poacher  fishing  in  his  waters.  The  man  had 
a  fish  in  his  possession,  and  the  squire  sent  him  to  the 
lockup  for  the  night  and  had  the  fish  stuffed  and  baked 
for  his  own  breakfast.  The  same  squire's  wife  grew 
thin  under  her  husband's  economy;  her  dresses  were 
being  continually  taken  in  by  the  dressmaker,  and  the 
dressmaker  was  being  continually  taken  in  by  the  squire. 
We  remember  the  old  story-teller  as  he  passed  along  the 
streets  on  market-days,  touching  his  hat  to  a  collegian, 
spying  out  ancient  friends  and  meditating  upon  or  mak- 
ing a  bargain.  He  knew  the  corners  of  the  city.  A 
merry  soul,  dead  and  gone  now. 

And  this  is  the  sad  thing  about  Oxford,  perhaps  more 
than  elsewhere,  the  breaking  up  of  old  ties  and  the  con- 
stant change  of  faces.  The  streets  and  the  buildings  re- 
main so  much  the  same  that  one  feels  the  people  should 
remain  also ;  a  short  acquaintance,  and  they  change. 
Some  men  become  fixtures — the  heads  of  the  colleges, 
the  hosts  of  the  inns,  the  carriers  from  the  neighborhood 
and  the  shopkeepers.  Memories  gather  around  them ;  and 
when  they  go,  they  are  more  missed  than  one  can  tell. 

The  visitor  will  find  Oxford  in  every  sense  satisfying 
— a  noble  city,  an  atmosphere  of  scholarship,  splendid 
in  buildings, 

"  Majestic  in  the  moss  of  time," 

and  in  every  way  worthy  of  the  praise  which  it  has 
received. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

&n  Opening  aSJalfc. 

"  There  are  sunset  glories  to  crown  the  view 

On  the  far  hill-ranges  showered ; 
There  are  splendors  of  nearer  warmth  and  hue 
On  the  homestead  tree-embowered." 

THERE  is  a  direct  road  to  Watlington  from  Oxford, 
fifteen  miles  long,  pleasant,  hilly  and  traversed  twice  a 
week  by  carriers'  vans.  It  passes  by  the  field  of  Chal- 
grove,  where  John  Hampden  received  his  death-wounds, 
and  on  which  is  a  monument  commemorating  that  event 
and  stating  that  he  fought  in  defence  of  the  free  mon- 
arch and  ancient  liberties  of  England.  There  are  also 
the  villages  of  Chiselhampton  and  Stadhampton,  with  a 
long  and  narrow  bridge  between  them  spanning  the  river 
Thame.  This  bridge  is  remarkable  for  its  stout  angular 
buttresses  set  against  the  current  and  as  the  scene  of  a 
prolonged  resistance  against  Prince  Rupert  on  the  morn- 
ing of  Chalgrove  battle.  The  name  of  the  former  vil- 
lage is  locally  shortened  into  Chisleton ;  in  the  time  of 
Henry  III.  it  was  Chevacheeshull  Hampton.  Our  choice 
and  purpose,  however,  led  us  to  take  the  railway  to 
Thame,  and  from  there,  in  the  cool  evening,  to  walk  to 
the  town  of  the  Watlings.  The  distance  is  about  nine 
miles ;  the  road,  good  and  running  across  a  fertile  and 
well-wooded  country. 

9  127 


128     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

It  so  chanced  that  the  day  was  that  on  which  the  elec- 
tion of  members  for  South  Oxfordshire  in  the  Eleventh 
Parliament  of  Her  Majesty  Queen  Victoria  was  held, 
and,  as  we  were  greatly  interested  in  one  of  the  par- 
ties— it  is  immaterial  which — we  did  not  fail  to  take 
notice  of  the  life  and  activity  which  such  an  occasion 
everywhere  brings  forth.  The  usually  quiet  road  was 
lively  with  carts,  wagons  and  carriages  laden  with  voters 
returning  from  the  polls.  Boisterous  songs  and  loud 
hurrahs  disturbed  the  peace  of  one  of  the  loveliest  of 
England's  lovely  summer  eventides.  The  contrast  was 
great  between  the  noisy,  half-drunken  patriots  and  the 
still,  golden  sunlight  which  streamed  through  the  high 
hedges  and  the  tree-tops — so  gentle,  calm  and  restful, 
lighting  birds  and  squirrels  home  to  their  nests  and  bid- 
ding the  deer  in  the  park  seek  shelter  beneath  the  oaks 
for  the  night.  It  is  a  fact  that  in  England  beer  and  pa- 
triotism go  together — a  fact  curious,  but  not  unique :  it 
is  said  to  occur  elsewhere.  Possibly  the  vote  is  more 
honest  when  the  voter  is  far  enough  gone  in  his  cups 
not  to  know  how  to  mark  his  ballot-paper — when  he  for- 
gets whether  the  cross  opposite  the  candidate's  name 
means  "  For  "  or  "  Against."  At  such  a  time  he  is  not 
open  to  argument  or  to  bribery — though,  so  far  as  we 
could  learn,  no  party  was  guilty  of  offering  either.  He 
becomes  tremendously  and  unshakably  loyal  to  the  Crown 
and  the  Constitution ;  his  voice  and  his  influence  go  for 
things  as  they  are,  Church  and  State,  queen  and  royal 
family,  the  Union  and  the  House  of  Lords ;  hence  the 
Liberals  strive  to  make  him  sober,  for  they  have  no 
chance  with  him  when  he  is  drunk,  and  the  Conserva- 
tives try  to  make  him  drunk,  for  they  can  do  nothing 


AN  EVENING    WALK.  1 29 

with  him  when  he  is  sober.  John  Bull  may  be,  in  com- 
mon with  most  men,  an  animal,  but  he  is  at  least  a  grate- 
ful one  :  he  never  forgets  the  considerate  body  who  gives 
him  a  juicy  mutton-chop  or  an  overflowing  muggin  of 
stout. 

The  Conservative  modus  opcrandi  is  more  praiseworthy 
than  at  first  sight  may  appear.  Autolycus  sang,  "A 
quart  of  ale  is  a  dish  for  a  king ;"  and  Armorer  Horner's 
neighbor  touched  that  worthy  aright  when  he  exclaimed, 
"  Here's  a  pot  of  good  double  beer,  neighbor;  drink,  and 
fear  not  your  man."  Nor  is  the  spirit  of  malt  stayed  at  sim- 
ulating royalty  or  creating  valiancy :  Camden  tells  us  that 
the  secret  of  the  longevity  of  the  English  is  their  an- 
cient, peculiar  and  very  wholesome  barley- wine,  and  in 
a  rare  tract  of  the  seventeenth  century  it  is  said  that  beer 
well  brewed,  of  a  low,  pure  amber  color,  clear  and  spark- 
ling, is  necessary  not  only  for  the  poor,  who  commonly 
eat  such  things  as  afford  little  or  bad  nourishment,  but 
is  also  most  powerful  to  expel  poisonous  infections. 
Through  mediaeval  and  into  post-Reformation  times 
the  wardens — who  were  oftentimes  women — brewed  and 
supplied  the  ale  consumed  by  the  people  in  the  church 
nave  or  yard  on  Sundays  and  holy  days,  and  down  to 
Queen  Anne's  reign,  and  in  some  places  much  later, 
while  the  parson  and  the  squire  had  their  twice-baked 
bread  and  their  thirst-slaking  potion  between  the  ante- 
communion  and  the  sermon,  nonconformists,  both  min- 
isters and  deacons,  accepted  the  necessity  of  similar 
cereal  refreshment  before  and  after  their  services.  Even 
at  funerals  it  was  found  efficacious  in  inducing  an  appro- 
priate and  becoming  sorrow  or  in  staying  an  inordinate 
and  troublesome  grief.  There  were  some — as  did  they 


I3O  THE  HEART  OF  MERE  IE  ENGLAND. 

who  made  a  certain  return  to  King  Edward  VI. — who 
spoke  against  "  the  wicked  weed  called  hops,"  but,  on 
the  whole,  so  convinced  were  our  forefathers  of  the  use- 
fulness of  ale  that  in  the  year  1577,  about  which  time 
inns,  taverns  and  alehouses  were  an  acknowledged  social 
nuisance  and  the  population  of  England  did  not  exceed 
four  millions,  there  were  over  sixteen  thousand  of  them 
in  the  kingdom.  Nay,  in  a  remote  antiquity,  the  fathers 
of  Valhalla  taught  by  example  these  virtues  and  mys- 
teries ;  for  the  Alvismal  says  of  this  old  British  Kwrw, 
this  Spicigenam  Bromon  of  Julian  the  Apostate,  "  it  is 
called  ale  among  men,  and  among  the  gods  beer."  Now 
add  to  all  this  the  political  power  of  the  beverage,  and 
who  shall  say  the  Conservatives  are  at  fault  ?  If  beer 
helps  to  make  men  grateful,  kinglike,  brave,  healthy,  re- 
ligious, decorous,  hilarious,  followers  of  the  gods,  and, 
above  all,  to  deprive  them  of  the  skill  to  plot  and  to 
plan  against  the  powers  that  be,  is  it  not  both  kind  and 
wise  to  give  them  of  it  plentifully  ?  It  is  true,  besides 
these  things,  it  will  enable  some  to  see  the  snakes  come 
out  of  the  bones  of  those  who  lie  in  tombs,  for  serpents 
grow  of  human  marrow,  according  to  P.  Ovidius  Naso ; 
but  Chuang  Tzu,  a  philosopher  of  the  Flowery  Land, 
four  hundred  years  before  our  era,  observed  that  the 
mental  equilibrium  of  a  drunken  man  is  undisturbed, 
the  ordinary  ideas  of  life,  death  and  fear  find  no  place  in 
his  breast,  and  were  he  to  fall  out  of  a  cart,  though  he 
might  suffer,  yet  he  would  not  die.  Unconscious  of  rid- 
ing in  the  cart,  he  is  equally  unconscious  of  falling  out 
of  it.  Tell  me,  which  would  you  rather  have  on  your 
doorstep  or  in  your  cellar,  a  man  with  a  can  of  beer  or  a 
man  with  a  can  of  dynamite  ?  Well,  one  set  of  politi- 


AN  EVENING    WALK.  131 

« 

cians  uses  the  one,  and  another  set  the  other,  to  carry 
out  their  measures  for  the  good  of  society ;  the  one,  ad- 
mittedly, is  apt  to  deface  the  most  glorious  work  of 
God's  hands,  but  the  other  is  likely  to  destroy  the  most 
glorious  works  of  man's  hands,  and  you  into  the  bar- 
gain. I  imagine  that  all  dabblers  in  the  art  of  govern- 
ment are  divided  into  two  classes,  even  as  Hamlet  di- 
vided the  question  of  existence,  To-be  and  Not-to-be. 
Beer  helps  the  one,  and  dynamite  the  other — only  in  the 
extremes,  to  be  sure,  but  then  it  is  the  extremes  who  do 
the  work.  The  one  would  leave  the  country  very  much 
as  they  found  it ;  the  other  would  make  it  such  as  no 
State  has  ever  been  either  in  heaven  above  or  in  the 
earth  beneath  or  in  the  wa —  Stop !  I  am  not  so  sure 
about  the  third  place.  Milton  and  Dante  have  had 
something  to  say  concerning  those  regions,  and  a  good 
man  once  told  me  that  Satan  was  a  radical,  a  disturber 
and  a  restless  mischief-maker.  He  may  use  explosives 
in  his  domain  ;  he  certainly  does  not  use  malt  beverages. 
Among  the  To-be's  the  opposite  prevails.  They  employ 
strong,  wholesome  ale  which  makes  one  incapable  of 
such  gross  and  violent  wickedness.  The  evidences 
which  we  saw  that  quiet  evening  in  the  road  from 
Thame  to  Watlington  showed  beyond  a  doubt  that  the 
Conservatives  had  done  their  best  to  save  the  country. 
Events  proved  their  wisdom  and  strength:  the  Union 
was  preserved  and  Mr.  Gladstone  retired  to  Hawarden. 
Now,  what  I  mean,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  talk  about 
such  things  as  we  walk  along  this  still  road,  so  glorious- 
ly arched  and  shaded  with  the  noblest  of  trees,  is  this : 
In  the  English  elections  beer  wins.  Speaking  algebrai- 
cally, beer  is  the  x,  the  unknown  quantity  and  the  all- 


132  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

prevailing  factor ;  whichever  party  uses  it  the  most  free- 
ly will  succeed.  The  Liberals  may  be  well-meaning 
enough,  but  they  cannot  approach  the  Conservatives 
in  this  respect — that  is  to  say,  when  the  Conservatives 
get  desperate.  Neither  can  give  the  voter  anything 
before  the  election,  but  afterward  the  humor  of  the 
thing  twinkles  in  his  eye  as  he  looks  upon  the  nine- 
gallon  keg  of  beer  in  his  cellar.  The  innkeeper  can 
also  in  a  good-natured,  off-hand  sort  of  way  refrain 
from  taking  payment  for  his  supplies  to  the  free  and 
independent  man,  and  later  on  present  his  little  bill  to 
the  steward  of  the  candidate.  Nobody,  surely,  can  ob- 
ject to  a  rich  man  paying  his  poor  neighbor's  debts. 
Moreover,  another  item  comes  in.  Suppose  a  wealthy 
land-owner — and  I  am  speaking  exclusively  of  the 
country — desires  to  get  his  eldest  son  into  Parlia- 
ment: it  is  evident  that  the  tenant-farmers  will  be 
anxious  to  please  and  propitiate  their  landlord,  and 
the  laborers  their  master,  by  loyalty  at  the  polls. 
There  is  such  a  thing  as  raising  the  rent  or  refusing 
improvements,  of  lowering  wages  or  discharging  men, 
when  things  do  not  go  as  they  in  superior  position 
would  have  them  go.  Not  that  I  would  imply  that 
there  is  a  peer  or  a  squire — from  Land's  End  to  the 
house  of  the  judicious  Dutchman  who  in  the  reign  of 
James  IV.  settled  the  question  of  precedency  among 
his  nine  sons  by  having  nine  doors  made  to  his  cot- 
tage, one  for  each  son,  and  a  round  table  for  them  all 
— who  would  trouble  himself  whether  his  tenants  went 
one  way  or  the  other ;  but  as  on  board  ship  the  mate  is 
more  to  the  men  than  is  the  captain,  so  on  an  estate  the 
landlord's  great  man  is  greater  to  the  tenants  than  is 


AN  EVENING    WALK.  133 

the  landlord  himself.  And  the  landlord's  great  man 
can  make  things  very  comfortable  or  very  uncomfort- 
able pretty  much  at  his  own  sweet  will,  and  as  surely  as 
two  and  two  make  four  he  looks  out  for  the  way  the 
people  vote.  It  is  human  nature;  perhaps  in  another 
world  two  and  two  may  make  five,  and  then  things  will 
be  different. 

Nor  are  the  farm-laborers  of  England  the  most  intel- 
ligent of  mortals.  I  have  said  something  illustrative  of 
this  elsewhere;  now  I  only  need  add  that  the  legend 
of  "  Three  Acres  and  a  Cow  "  of  the  previous  election 
was  not  wholly  without  foundation.  It  will  be  remem- 
bered that  some  Radical  candidate,  speaking  of  the 
golden  age  when  the  principles  he  was  advocating 
shall  have  triumphed,  illustrated  his  description  of  the 
workingman's  plenty  by  promising  him  three  acres  and 
a  cow.  I  suppose  he  had  figured  up  how  far  the  land 
and  the  cattle  would  go,  and  made  this  out  to  be  each 
man's  share.  It  was  a  bit  of  rhetoric,  possibly  true 
enough  as  such  things  go,  but  it  was  interpreted  to 
mean  that  each  voter  should  have  so  munificent  a  gift 
provided  the  candidate  got  into  Parliament.  Crafty 
election  agents  worked  to  some  advantage  on  this 
misinterpretation.  At  not  a  few  places — for  instance, 
in  the  Evesham  division — a  black  cow  was  drawn 
around  in  a  wagon  to  show  the  laborers  the  prize 
they  would  have.  Cans  of  milk  reputed  to  be  the 
produce  of  such  cow  were  freely  distributed.  In- 
quiries were  made  as  to  where  or  when  the  voters 
would  like  their  three  acres,  and  every  man  was  led  to 
believe  that  he  would  soon  have  a  share  in  the  parson's 
tithe  and  the  squire's  wealth.  So  the  Radical  candidate 


134  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

got  into  Parliament,  but  Ireland  remained  unsatisfied: 
the  golden  age  did  not  appear,  and  the  constituents 
went  without  their  promised  reward.  They  remem- 
bered that  fact  at  this  time ;  and  as  Israel  thought  of 
the  fleshpots  and  the  onions  of  Egypt,  so  they  called  to 
mind  the  flavor  and  the  potency  of  old-time  Conser- 
vative ale.  As  to  the  principles  at  stake  or  the  con- 
sequences involved  in  the  election  they  knew  little  and 
cared  less.  The  Irish  were  to  them  naught  but  dis- 
turbers of  the  peace,  enemies  of  the  queen,  benighted 
potato-eaters  in  a  rainy  and  whiskey-loving  island. 
Mr.  Gladstone  encouraged  them  in  their  rebellion;  so 
the  parson  said  and  so  the  squire  said ;  and  the  squire 
ought  to  know  the  facts  and  the  parson  to  speak  the 
truth. 

Perhaps  if  the  "Invincibles" — whoever  they  are — would 
give  the  English  people  information  of  the  wrongs  and  the 
wishes  of  the  Emerald  Isle  instead  of  giving  them  nitro- 
glycerine, the  aspect  of  affairs  would  be  materially  changed. 
As  it  is,  the  country-folk  of  the  Midlands  know  no  more 
of  Tipperary  than  of  Kwang-tung,  nor  of  Mr.  Parnell 
than  of  Abdul  Hamid  II.  Not  that  the  Irish  are  by 
any  means  silent  elsewhere.  Their  voices  are  heard  in 
all  lands,  and  three  hundred  years  ago  there  was  an 
old  opinion  among  them  that  the  man  who .  in  the 
clamor  and  outcry  which  was  made  at  the  beginning 
of  a  battle  did  not  shout  and  scream  as  loudly  as  the 
rest  was  suddenly  snatched  from  the  ground  and  car- 
ried flying  to  the  lonely  valleys  of  Kerry,  there  to  eat 
grass  and  to  lap  water,  with  no  sense  of  misery  or  of 
happiness,  speechless,  forsaken,  till  caught  by  the  hunt- 
ers and  brought  back  to  his  own  home.  For  some  gen- 


AN  EVENING    WALK.  135 

erations  there  is  no  record  of  any  Hibernian  passing 
through  this  penance — certainly  not  during  the  present 
century.  They  who  believe  in  the  Anglo-Israel  theory 
put  down  the  Irish  as  the  Canaanites,  but  though,  ac- 
cording to  William  'Camden,  there  was  once  a  great 
West-Meath  chieftain  who  declared  he  would  not  learn 
English  lest  it  should  set  his  mouth  awry,  they  speak 
the  language  with  a  sweeter  brogue  and  a  more  charm- 
ing vivacity  than  do  even  the  people  of  the  hill-country 
of  the  West  Riding.  It  is  well  to  remember  that  Ireland 
owes  her  connection  with  England  largely  to  the  good 
pope  who  handed  her  over  to  the  Angevin  king.  Was 
the  Holy  Father  acting  ex  cathedra  that  time?  Speak  not 
evil  of  dignities ;  undoubtedly  the  English  are  the  bet- 
ter papists  of  the  two  :  they  recognize  what  the  supreme 
pontiff  did  in  the  matter.  Of  all  this,  however,  the  agri- 
cultural folk  were,  and  still  are,  ignorant ;  all  they  know 
is  that  Irish  laborers  come  into  English  harvest-fields, 
and  that  Ireland  is  a  wicked  and  rebellious  land.  Hence 
their  solid  vote. 

Feelings  one  way  or  the  other  run  high  everywhere. 
A  story  is  told — I  am  not  responsible  for  its  truth — of  a 
Wesleyan  brother  who  prayed  fervently  for  his  beloved 
and  ideal  statesman :  "  O  Lord,  grant  that  in  these  troub- 
lous times  our  talented  Mr.  Gladstone  and  his  followers 
may  hang  together." — "Amen!"  said  an  equally  fervid 
Conservative  brother  in  the  congregation ;  "  amen  !  God 
grant  they  may  hang  together."  The  preacher  thought 
he  had  made  a  mistake  somehow ;  so  he  went  on :  "I 
mean,  Lord,  that  they  may  hang  together  in  accord  and 
concord ;"  to  which  the  other  responded,  "  I  don't  care 
what  cord  it  is,  but,  Lord,  let  them  hang  together." 


136  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

Well,  the  elections  did  not  hang  them,  merely  suspended 
them. 

Some  ask,  "Are  the  farm-laborers  fit  for  the  fran- 
chise ?"  I  do  not  think  it  is  so  much  a  question  of  fit- 
ness as  of  power :  Can  they  freely  exercise  it  ?  Social 
conditions  are  against  them,  money  is  against  them,  and 
the  tyranny  of  money  is  worse  than  was  ever  the  tyr- 
anny of  a  feudal  lord.  He  at  least  had  some  kind  of  a 
conscience,  but  gold  has  none — nor  commercial  corpo- 
rations, nor  political  caucuses.  I  do  not  believe  the 
country  masses  have  ever  been  really  heard,  or  that  they 
will  be  for  long  years  to  come.  They  cannot  speak ; 
would  things  be  better  if  such  as  they  did  speak  ?  It  is 
a  curious  fact  that  the  town  artisan  looks  down  upon  the 
village  hind  with  even  greater  contempt  and  scorn  than 
that  with  which  the  noble  regards  the  merchant.  The 
man  who  nails  the  shoe  on  the  horse's  feet  thinks  him- 
self altogether  better  than  the  man  who  follows  the  horse 
along  the  furrow.  There  are  gradations  fine  and  subtile, 
class  upon  class,  but  they  are  all-powerful.  The  wheel- 
wright and  the  wagoner  or  the  carpenter  and  the  shep- 
herd will  not  associate  together  more  than  is  necessary. 
Hence  the  wide  gulf  between  the  breaker  of  stones  by 
the  roadside  and  the  dweller  within  the  stone  walls  of  the 
mansion  is  bridged  over  by  innumerable  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  men,  each  a  step  higher  than  the  other — per- 
haps an  almost  imperceptible  step,  but  making  it  next  to 
impossible  that  the  one  should  do  without  the  other  or 
the  one  should  war  against  the  other. 

But  it  is  little  short  of  sin  to  waste  a  lovely  evening 
along  such  a  road  as  we  are  walking  by  discussing  such 
dry  and  threadbare  subjects.  On  our  left  is  Thame 


AN  EVENING    WALK.  137 

Park,  once  and  for  a  long  time  the  home  of  Lady  Wen- 
man.  Here  was  formerly  an  abbey,  founded — or,  rather, 
translated — by  Alexander,  the  magnificent  bishop  of 
Lincoln  and  lord  of  the  manor  of  Thame,  in  1138,  to 
atone  for  his  extravagance  in  castle-building.  As  this 
and  other  like  "  works  of  satisfaction  "  came  out  of  the 
revenues  of  the  Church,  the  merit  was  not  all  that  it 
might  have  been.  He  took  an  important  part  in  the 
troubles  of  the  reign  of  Stephen,  and,  though  said  to  be 
kindly  in  heart  and  cheerful  in  countenance,  was  as  no- 
torious for  his  worldliness  as  for  his  statesmanship  and 
energy.  His  rapacity  was  almost  boundless ;  his  pomp, 
more  secular  and  military  than  ecclesiastical,  was  the 
marvel  of  the  age.  He  was  present  at  that  momentous 
visit  to  the  pope  in  1125  when  the  archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury, in  order  to  secure  the  supremacy  of  his  see,  ac- 
cepted legatine  authority  and  thus  placed  the  Church  of 
England  under  vassalage  to  the  court  of  Rome.  One 
of  his  successors,  Henry  Lexington,  in  the  reign  of 
Henry  III.  brought  the  great  road,  which  before  lay  on 
one  side  of  Thame,  through  the  middle  of  it,  and  thus 
gave  prosperity  to  the  town.  The  abbey  was  colonized 
from  the  first  Cistercian  house  in  England,  at  Waverley, 
in  Surrey,  being,  as  the  saying  then  went,  one  of  the 
four  daughters  of  that  establishment  and  the  mother  of 
another  house  at  Bindon,  in  Dorset.  At  the  time  of  the 
dissolution  it  had  a  yearly  revenue  of  two  hundred  and 
fifty-six  pounds.  The  Cistercians  were  great  farmers, 
frugal,  taciturn  and  in  some  ways  more  austere  than 
other  branches  of  the  great  Benedictine  family.  They 
were  of  Burgundian  origin ;  their  houses  were  all  of  in- 
dependent and  equal  rank,  dedicated  to  St.  Mary ;  and 


138     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

when  a  new  site  was  to  be  occupied,  an  abbot  and  twelve 
brethren  were  sent  forth  for  that  purpose.  Within  the 
century  in  which  Alexander  built  this  house  the  order 
became  all-powerful  and  embraced  eight  hundred  of  the 
richest  abbeys  of  Europe.  The  white-robed  fathers  no 
longer  walk  the  cloisters  or  the  glades  as  of  old,  but 
some  vestiges  of  their  buildings  remain.  Part  of  the 
present  house  was  built  in  the  fifteenth  century,  and  the 
drawing-room  by  Robert,  the  last  abbot  and  the  first 
bishop  of  Oxford.  There  is  a  chapel  where  for  a  long 
time  the  services  have  been  well  rendered  by  a  surpliced 
choir.  Lady  Wenman  was  both  fond  and  proud  of  her 
singers  and  paid  them  well.  The  congregation  consisted 
of  her  own  people,  and  a  quarter  of  a  century  since 
strangers  thought  it  a  privilege  and  a  pleasure  to  be  al- 
lowed to  worship  once  in  a  while  in  a  place  where  art 
and  decorum  united  to  make  devotion  beautiful  and 
attractive. 

A  walk  through  the  park  presents  many  pleasing 
views,  and  they  who  love  well-laid-out  grounds,  wide 
stretches  of  sward  set  with  clumps  of  broad  oaks,  deep 
copses  where  the  pheasant  roosts  and  the  rabbit  burrows, 
and  the  many  charms  which  surround  the  stately  homes 
of  England's  gentry,  will  meet  with  their  heart's  delight 
here.  The  high  hedges  and  the  closed  gates  at  the  lodge 
remind  one  that  the  place  is  private,  but,  as  the  people 
hereabouts  are  able  to  distinguish  fairly  well  between  a 
poacher  and  a  tourist,  it  is  possible  to  obtain  admittance. 
A  few  hundred  yards  from  the  lodge  gate,  farther  along 
the  road,  a  young  man  met  his  death.  It  was  on  a  sum- 
mer day,  about  the  year  1857.  A  thunderstorm  came 
on ;  the  rain  fell  in  torrents  and  the  lightning  flashed 


AN  EVENING    WALK.  139 

fiercely.  He  sought  shelter  under  a  wayside  tree — this 
opposite  to  us  is  likely  the  very  one — and  when  the 
next  traveller  came  by,  he  saw  a  huge  limb  rent  off  the 
tall  oak  and  on  the  burnt  grass  a  charred  and  lifeless 
corpse.  There  was  great  excitement  in  Thame,  where 
the  unfortunate  youth  belonged,  and  for  a  long  time, 
when  a  thunderstorm  occurred,  people  were  more  assid- 
uous than  ever  in  turning  their  mirrors  to  the  wall  and 
covering  their  knives  and  their  scissors.  Probably  few 
events  affected  the  town  more  than  this  since  the  year 
of  grace  970,  when  Oskytel,  archbishop  of  York,  died 
there. 

In  the  ditches  there  are  stinging-nettles  and  on  the 
high  ground  there  are  windmills ;  both  are  supposed  to 
be  indicative  of  fertility  and  prosperity.  The  land  that 
can  produce  the  one  and  needs  the  other  is  not  a  desert. 
A  man  in  search  of  a  farm  would  be  guided  somewhat 
by  them,  and  certainly  hereabouts  the  country  abounds 
in  rich  soil  and  in  the  time  of  harvest  the  fields  stand 
thick  with  corn.  In  bygone  days  country-people  made 
use  of  the  nettle.  Its  tops  they  used  as  a  vegetable  like 
spinach,  its  leaves  in  sickness  to  blister  the  skin  and  its 
fibre  to  make  string  or  rope.  Nevertheless,  it  is  a  nui- 
sance, in  secluded  spots  growing  six  feet  high  and  with 
jungle-like  density.  Touch  it  softly  and  it  wounds; 
seize  it  firmly  and  it  is  harmless.  The  sheep  carry  its 
seeds  in  their  fleeces;  hence  it  grows  luxuriantly  in 
churchyards,  where  they  are  often  put  to  graze.  It 
seems  to  love  loneliness,  like  the  windmill.  Of  all  the 
weird,  melancholy  solitudes  man  can  find,  the  dreariest, 
the  most  monotonous  and  brain-bewildering,  is  the 
neighborhood  of  a  windmill.  The  roar  and  rush  of  the 


140  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

storm,  the  sob  and  moan  of  the  breeze,  have  an  unearthly 
sound,  at  times  like  unto  the  shrieking  of  demons,  at 
times  like  the  wail  of  pain,  the  deep  sigh  of  the  saddened, 
hopeless  grief  of  lost  souls.  In  the  dusky  twilight  the 
huge  thing  stands  against  the  sky  like  a  black  spectre ; 
in  the  busy  day,  when  the  wind  sweeps  briskly  along,  its 
great  gaunt  arms  turn  over  and  over  with  that  supreme 
indifference  to  all  things  else,  that  constant,  laborious 
regularity,  which  irritates  the  calmest  nerve.  No  won- 
der the  valorous  Don  Quixote  was  stirred  to  the  depths 
of  his  chivalrous  soul  when  he  saw  the  outrageous  giants 
in  the  plain.  One  asks  if  the  men  who  live  there  are 
not  among  the  strange  fellows  Nature  has  framed  in  her 
time. 

See  the  sun-glory  on  yonder  hills  !  How  the  golden 
light  flows  across  the  greenwood  and  the  grassy  and 
furze-spotted  clearings !  Here  the  road  runs  into  the 
great  London  highway,  and  as  we  enter  it  we  leave  be- 
hind us  a  small  post-village  which  in  its  ancient  name 
of  Tetsworth  suggests  a  British  origin  and  the  Celtic 
worship  of  Teutates.  A  little  way  on  is  the  hamlet  of 
Postcomb — only  a  few  cottages  and  a  roadside  inn  which 
has  long  since  passed  its  usefulness,  and  kind  Time,  it  is 
hoped,  will  speedily  relieve  the  place  of  the  unsightly 
encumbrance.  A  trap  stands  before  the  door ;  a  thin, 
starved-looking  cur  is  prowling  around  the  open  space 
in  front;  the  windows  are  without  decent  shades,  some 
with  a  yellow-stained  sheet  pinned  up  to  hide  the  naked- 
ness within,  and  some  with  a  broken  pane  or  two  stuffed 
with  rags ;  the  doorsteps  are  displaced,  mossy  and  dirty, 
and  through  the  open  passage  comes  the  gabble  of  men 
at  their  cups.  There  is  no  romance  about  the  dingy, 


AN  EVENING    WALK.  141 

tumble-down,  frowsty  place.  It  is  a  relief  to  get  into 
the  footpath  across  the  fields  to  Lewknor.  The  air  fresh 
from  the  waving  corn  brightens  one's  soul  and  makes 
one  rejoice  in  the  goodness  of  Nature.  The  wheat  is 
just  turning  from  its  fresh  green  into  its  rich  russet,  and 
the  gnats  play  in  swarms  near  the  hedgerows  and  under 
the  trees.  Here  the  path  runs  beside  one  of  the  water- 
cress streams  for  which  Lewknor  is  known,  and  a  little 
farther  it  passes  through  the  churchyard  into  the  high- 
way. 

The  church  at  Lewknor  is  built  of  flint  with  quoins 
of  ashlar  and  has  a  Decorated  chancel,  a  brass  of  the 
fourteenth  century  and  a  Norman  font.  The  place  gives 
its  name  to  the  hundred  in  which  it  is  situate,  and  the 
name  may  have  come  from  the  ancient  family  of  Lewke- 
nors.  It  differs  little  from  the  quiet  and  secluded  vil- 
lages around,  but  it  has  two  features  which  attract  atten- 
tion— viz.,  a  great  watercress-bed  close  by  the  turnpike, 
and  a  lich-gate  leading  into  the  graveyard.  They  who 
have  eaten  of  the  cress  and  they  who  have  seen  the  gate 
will  not  forget  either.  Under  the  latter,  as  in  the  days 
of  old  and  as  its  name  indicates,  the  bearers  set  the 
corpse  until  the  priest  meets  it,  according  to  the  office 
for  burial.  A  short  distance  beyond  Lewknor  is  the 
road  leading  down  to  Shirbourne.  Had  we  time,  and 
were  not  the  evening  so  far  gone,  we  might  turn  aside 
to  that  little  village  and  see  therein  an  ancient  moated 
castle.  The  present  structure  dates  from  1377,  but  an 
earlier  one  was  built  in  the  reign  of  William  I.  by  Robert 
d'Oily,  to  whom  the  Conqueror  had  granted  Shirbourne. 
After  the  reign  of  Edward  III.  it  passed  successively 
into  various  families — among  them,  that  of  the  Quarter- 


142  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

mains,  a  noble  house  having  both  power  and  position 
throughout  this  district,  but  becoming  extinct  in  the 
time  of  Henry  VIII.  The  last  of  the  Quartermains, 
dying  childless,  gave  his  Shirbourne  estate  to  the  child 
of  his  steward,  who  sold  it  to  the  Chamberlains,  an  ancient 
family  which  so  named  themselves  from  the  office  their 
ancestors  held  to  the  dukes  of  Normandy.  A  lady  of 
this  family  defended  the  castle  against  the  Parliamentary 
forces  during  the  Carolingian  troubles.  Later  on,  in  the 
beginning  of  the  last  century,  it  was  bought  by  Thomas 
Parker,  a  member  of  a  junior  line  of  a  family  dating 
from  the  reign  of  Richard  II.  He  was  a  successful 
lawyer,  a  Hanoverian,  and  was  made  lord  chancellor  and 
earl  of  Macclesfield  by  George  I.  for  his  loyalty  and 
ability.  His  leaning  to  astronomical  and  mathematical 
research  led  him  to  establish  an  observatory,  which, 
though  it  may  not  have  done  much  for  the  advancement 
of  science,  certainly  advanced  two  poor  men  to  fame  and 
to  honor.  Phelps  the  stable-boy  and  Bartlett  the  shep- 
herd are  not  unknown  in  the  bead-roll  of  English 
astronomers.  The  castle  is  chiefly  Perpendicular  in 
style,  crenellated,  nearly  square,  with  round  towers  at 
the  corners,  is  defended  by  a  drawbridge  and  portcullis, 
and  differs  little  from  its  appearance  in  the  fourteenth 
century.  Upon  the  wide  moat  swans  swim  in  all  their 
stateliness.  Inside,  the  building  has  an  armory,  two 
libraries,  many  valuable  books  and  manuscripts  and 
some  very  fine  portraits.  Among  the  latter  are  those  of 
Erasmus,  Archbishop  Laud  and  Queen  Katherine  Parr. 
Under  the  portrait  of  the  last  named  is  a  lock  of  hair 
cut  from  the  head  of  the  queen  when  her  coffin  was 
opened  at  Sudley  Castle  in  the  year  1799.  In  the  year 


AN  EVENING    WALK.  143 

1294,  Brunette  Latini,  the  tutor  of  Dante,  slept  in  the 
castle  of  Shirbourne  on  his  way  from  London  to  Ox- 
ford; at  that  time,  he  says,  the  rough  hills  were  infested 
with  robbers.  Six  hundred  years  have  made  a  great 
change  in  the  social  order  of  England,  and  yet  standing 
before  that  old  castle  it  is  easy  to  recall  the  days  when 
men-at-arms  guarded  the  bridge,  and  archers  manned 
the  battlements,  and  at  the  bidding  of  the  baron  mailed 
knights  wielded  battle-axe  and  lance.  The  glory  of  a 
Warwick  or  of  a  Kenilworth  is  not  here :  everything  is 
less  magnificent,  less  entrancing ;  but  a  building  such  as 
this,  five  hundred  years  old,  is  not  without  interest  and 
history.  It,  indeed,  reminds  us  of  days  of  splendor  and 
romance,  when  imagination  had  not  been  shorn  of  its 
wings  or  stripped  of  its  glories,  and  men  strove  for  un- 
sullied honor  and  pure  truth  rather  in  chivalric  enter- 
prise than  in  the  paths  of  trade  and  commerce.  Force 
mildly  tempered  with  guile  then  ;  guile  mildly  tempered 
with  force  now.  It  also  reminds  us  of  days  when  the 
weak  were  helpless  against  the  strong,  when  the  villain 
was  the  serf  of  his  lord  and  the  slave  of  his  soil,  when 
king  and  barons  struggled  for  supremacy  and  men  did 
largely  what  was  right  in  their  own  eyes,  when  the 
mighty  met  on  thirsty  battlefields  and  the  rich  left  of 
their  wealth  for  priests  to  say  masses  for  their  stained 
and  suffering  souls.  In  the  days,  for  instance,  of 
Stephen,  when  Shirbourne  had  its  share  in  the  troubles, 
the  castles  were  at  once  the  oppressors  and  the  pro- 
tectors of  the  people :  the  hand  of  their  lord  was  against 
every  man,  but  he  suffered  no  man  to  touch  his  de- 
pendants. In  their  mud  cottages  they  clustered  around 
his  stronghold,  the  old  folks  glad  to  labor  if  they  might 
10 


144  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

but  save  for  their  sustenance  a  portion  of  their  crops, 
the  young  men  proud  to  serve  as  retainers  in  the  bands 
of  their  chief.  Life  was  probably  less  severe  and  irk- 
some than  we  imagine;  there  was  an  interdependence 
binding  all  into  one.  When  Wat  was  among  the  cross- 
bowmen,  or  little  Robin  helped  to  clean  the  armor,  or 
Cis  to  serve  in  the  lady's  bower  or  to  work  in  the 
laundry,  there  was  a  direct  link  between  the  castle 
and  the  cabin ;  the  one  depended  upon  the  other.  The 
castle  needed  men  and  food ;  the  cabin,  protection.  In 
all  likelihood  the  villagers  were  as  proud  and  as  de- 
sirous of  the  success  of  their  lord  as  subjects  are  now 
for  the  honor  of  their  king.  Not  that  the  life  within  the 
baronial  halls  was  the  purest  and  the  gentlest :  purity 
and  gentleness  must  be  sought  for  in  the  monastery,  and 
not  in  the  castle;  but  it  was  hearty,  free  and  jovial. 
People  were  rude  and  rough,  yet  they  were  closer  in 
their  interests  to  one  another  than  we  are  in  our  day. 
They  recognized  the  principle  that  all  men  are  unequal ; 
we  think  them  equal,  and  absolve  ourselves  and  all 
others  from  those  responsibilities  which  the  high  and 
the  lowly  observed  under  the  old  system.  Possibly  we 
shall  make  a  better  world  of  it  than  our  fathers  did; 
whether  a  happier  is  another  question.  Any  way,  Shir- 
bourne  Castle  is  now  a  quiet,  harmless  residence ;  per- 
sonal loyalty  is  no  longer  asked  for  nor  given ;  the  earl 
is  liberal  to  his  tenants  and  kind  to  his  poor :  the  one 
pay  their  rent  to  his  steward,  the  other  buy  their  rabbits 
from  his  gamekeeper.  The  neighborhood  is  as  rich  and 
diversified  in  scenery  as  the  castle  is  stern  and  imposing 
in  structure.  Chaunt  a  lay  of  the  olden  time,  recall  a 
scene  of  Froissart  or  a  page  of  Chaucer,  and  you  may 


AN  EVENING    WALK.  145 

see  merry  and  mediaeval  England  alike  in  the  swelling, 
beech-clad  hills  of  Chiltern  and  in  the  towers  and  the 
turrets  of  Shirbourne. 

As  the  twilight  darkens,  the  moon  floods  the  country 
with  her  silvery  beams.  Beyond  this  long  wall  is  the 
road  leading  to  Pyrton,  a  small  village  with  an  Eliza- 
bethan mansion  where  Hampden's  father-in-law  lived. 
Another  field  and  a  close,  and  Watlington  begins. 
Asleep,  is  it  ?  It  is  scarcely  more  awake  when  the  sun 
is  shining.  While  we  eat  our  supper  and  take  our  ease 
in  the  hotel,  and  to-morrow  ramble  about  the  place,  I 
will  tell  you  something  of  it.  The  chicken  and  the  ale 
evidently  belong  to  an  uncertain  age — a  good  quality  in 
the  latter,  even  if  not  in  the  former — but  the  cold  mutton 
with  Worcestershire  sauce  is  all  that  a  good  appetite  can 
desire.  Mine  host  is  busy,  and  the  next  sun  will  shine 
upon  some  aching  heads  and  empty  pockets.  Any  way, 
there  will  be  no  such  wild  riot  here  as  that  student  in 
good-fellowship  hight  Philip  Foulface  of  Alefoord  de- 
scribed in  his  black-letter  quarto  entituled  Bacchus 
Bountie,  Then  the  thirsty  sinners,  prepared  beforehand 
with  such  mouth-seasoning  as  red  herring,  broiled  bacon 
and  hot-spiced  pudding,  passed  on  from  merriment  to 
riot,  and  from  riot  to  wrestling  and  war,  till,  exhausted, 
both  wounded  and  drunken,  they  lay  in  heaps  on  the 
floor.  Nothing  of  that  will  happen  now.  The  landlord 
values  his  reputation  and  the  constable  moves  about  as. 
nimbly  as  a  dog's  tail.  There  is  a  house  with  a  yard  not 
far  from  this — we  passed  it  as  we  entered  the  town — 
which  was  many  years  since  occupied  by  a  wheelwright. 
A  jovial,  happy-go-lucky  sort  of  fellow  was  he,  a  work- 
man of  the  first  rank,  well-to-do,  employing  several  men 


146  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

and  apprentices  and  holding  some  respect  and  position 
in  the  neighborhood.  He  made  most  of  the  wagons  and 
the  carts  used  hereabouts,  and  once  a  year,  after  a  season 
of  good  work,  he  gave  a  supper  to  his  friends  and  work- 
men, his  best  customers  also  being  invited.  Instead  of 
the  smoking  hoop  of  the  wheel,  the  boys  saw  the  vapor- 
ous offrisings  of  the  big  boiler  into  which  every  Monday 
throughout  the  year  was  put  the  washed  linen  of  the 
household,  but  which  now  contained  hams,  legs  of  mut- 
ton and  rounds  of  beef,  carrots,  potatoes  and  cabbage. 
It  also  served  for  brewing-purposes.  The  huge  plum- 
puddings  had  been  prepared  for  several  days  ;  and  when 
the  table  in  the  great  parlor  was  set,  the  good  and  solid 
things  thereon  made  the  round  eyes  of  the  guests  glisten 
and  their  fat  faces  broaden  with  delight.  What  eating 
and  drinking,  to  be  sure !  The  stout  little  gentleman 
of  the  hub  and  the  spoke  wielded  his  great  carving-knife 
and  fork  at  the  head  of  the  table  as  dexterously  as  he 
was  wont  to  swing  the  hammer  at  the  anvil  or  the  axe 
at  the  block.  The  beaded  moisture  of  warmth  and  effort 
combined  with  the  glowing  beams  of  satisfaction  to  make 
his  countenance  ruddy  and  radiant.  His  hospitality  was 
boundless,  nor  did  he  reach  the  acme  of  his  joy  till  he 
knew  that  every  one  around  his  board  was  stuffed  to  the 
full,  and  that  even  the  rubicund  and  ale-soaked  farmers 
were  so  far  gone  as  to  need  somebody  to  see  them  safely 
home.  For  one  or  two  of  his  neighbors  a  wheelbarrow 
stood  in  the  yard,  and  about  midnight  the  good-natured 
apprentices  would  bowl  them  off  to  their  domiciles  with 
right  hearty  glee.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  in  a  letter  to  Wil- 
liam Shakespeare  affirms  that  a  kinsman  made  the  new 
herb  from  the  Chesapeake  into  tea ;  but  had  he  seen  this 


AN  EVENING    WALK.  147 

worthy  wheelwright  going  through  the  soothing  gri- 
maces of  puffing  and  drawing  at  a  pipe  filled  and  yet  un- 
lighted,  and  according  to  his  own  solemn  affirmation,  often 
reiterated,  with  satisfaction  equal  to  that  of  those  who 
applied  the  glowing  coal  or  the  blazing  chip,  he  would 
have  foreseen  the  ruin  of  the  plantations  of  the  West. 
There  was  merriment,  you  may  be  sure — an  echo  of  the 
harvest-home  and  of  the  good  times  when  hospitality 
and  kindly  feeling  prevailed  throughout  the  merry  land. 
Songs  were  sung — two  or  three  harmless  ones  before  the 
women  left,  and  then  such  as  "  The  Bashful  Lover  "  and 
one  in  "  Praise  of  Claret,"  of  which  it  need  only  be  said 
that  after  a  popularity  of  several  generations  the  mod- 
esty and  the  purity  of  our  age  banished  them  from  among 
men.  Stories  were  also  told — stones,  for  the  most  part, 
with  more  than  a  point  in  them,  and  which  may  not  be 
repeated  in  days  when  no  one  cares  to  hear  such  things. 
That  was  the  time  to  see  the  real  side :  we  have  passed 
by  it  all ;  and  no  one  thought  any  the  worse  of  the  good 
souls  who  mingled  merriment  with  religion  and  sang  in 
the  bar-room  on  Saturday  and  in  the  organ-loft  on  Sun- 
day. Later  on  everybody  went  to  bed — that  is  to  say, 
everybody  except  the  apprentices,  whose  couch  in  the 
attic  being  occupied  by  visitors  from  over  Chinnor  way 
obliged  them  to  sleep  on  the  floor  with  the  dogs  before 
the  kitchen  fire. 

Among  the  guests  there  was  for  some  years  one  who 
enjoyed  the  sobriquet  of  Tippling  John.  He  was  a  decent, 
sleek-looking  old  boy  of  about  forty-five,  and  did  not  get 
his  nickname  from  his  turning  up  his  little  finger,  but 
from  his  skill  in  rendering  an  old  melody  upon  the  charms 
of  drinking.  He  had  travelled  a  little  and  read  much. 


148  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

He  wore  corduroy  breeches  with  home-knit  blue-worsted 
stockings  and  buckled  shoes;  his  waistcoat  was  of  crim- 
son plush  and  his  frock  of  dark -brown  velvet.  A  great 
turnip-watch  and  a  good-sized  snuff-box  gave  him  some 
influence  among  his  fellows.  His  ability  as  a  story-teller 
was  good,  and  he  claimed  to  have  known  something  of 
the  dowager  countess  of  Macclesfield,  who  maintained 
the  state  and  the  dignity  which  became  a  lady  of  rank 
in  the  days  of  yore  in  a  lodge  on  a  spur  of  the  hills 
within  sight  of  Shirbourne  Castle.  It  is  probable  that 
he  was  rather  confused  in  his  recollections,  but  as  he 
affirmed  that  she  was  a  good  lady,  fond  of  whist,  wine 
and  the  diverting  story  of  Pamela,  but  nevertheless  a 
good  lady,  none  of  his  stories  of  the  lodge  affected  her 
reputation.  She  had  a  weakness  for  mushrooms  and 
poachers — at  any  rate,  she  loved  the  one  and  hated  the 
other — and  kept  the  gamekeepers  busy  searching  for 
them.  But  Tippling  John's  best  story  did  not  concern 
her  in  the  remotest  degree,  and  fortunately,  for  everybody 
had  a  suspicion  that  he  knew  nothing  at  all  about  the 
earl's  family.  This  he  only  told  when  fairly  on  his  way 
to  maudlin  exhilaration,  and  it  had  the  effect  of  sobering 
him  and  subduing  his  exuberant  spirits.  The  story  ran 
something  like  this  (draw  up  to  the  fire  and  take  another 
pipe ;  the  nights  are  chilly,  though  it  is  July,  and,  the 
pipe  and  story  over,  then  to  bed) : 

One  dark  stormy  night  many  years  ago — long  before 
you  and  I,  Joe  Wiggins,  began  to  play  nine  men's  mor- 
ris— Parson  Jones  was  on  his  way  home  from  an  oyster- 
feast.  Clergymen  in  those  days  were  very  partial  to  oys- 
ters, and  with  good  reason,  for  the  British  oyster  was  fa- 
mous in  the  days  of  the  apostles,  and  large  quantities  of 


AN  EVENING    WALK.  149 

the  exquisite  delicacy  were  then  sent  to  Rome.  Parson 
Jones  did  not  know  this,  nor  even  of  the  grand  oyster- 
suppers  his  predecessors  indulged  in  before  the  Reforma- 
tion began,  and  he  went  jogging  along  on  his  old  sorrel, 
thinking  only  of  where  he  had  been  and  where  he  was 
going.  It  was  easier  to  decide  the  former  than  it  was 
the  latter ;  for  when  he  approached  the  river  which  lay 
between  him  and  his  home,  he  found  that  the  water  had 
risen  high  up  the  road  and  was  rushing  and  roaring  over 
the  fields  and  the  bridge  at  a  terrific  speed.  The  mare 
stood  on  the  brink  of  the  flood,  and  Parson  Jones  for- 
got all  about  the  oysters.  Then  he  determined  to  ride 
on,  knowing  that  the  bridge  had  fairly  high  walls  and 
horses  were  by  instinct  good  swimmers;  so  into  the 
water  he  went,  splashing  along  as  fast  as  the  mare 
would  go.  But  the  flood  was  higher  than  he  thought 
for,  and  before  he  reached  the  bridge  the  water  rose  over 
the  stirrups ;  in  a  few  minutes  the  mare  was  swimming 
— where,  he  could  not  tell,  for  the  night  was  pitchy 
dark,  and,  to  add  to  his  confusion,  the  rain  began  to 
fall  in  driving  torrents.  The  water  surged  around  him, 
but  he  rode  smoothly  on. 

"  Bother  the  oysters  !"  he  said  to  himself.  "  No  more 
oysters  for  me  in  this  world.  Where's  the  confounded 
bridge? — Gently,  Betty  my  girl;  strike  bottom. — Is  it 
across  the  stream,  or  is  it  down  the  stream  ?" 

At  the  thought  of  this  he  began  to  shiver,  for  you 
must  know  he  was  but  a  young  fellow,  and,  though  he 
had  no  wife,  he  had  a  very  good  living.  His  boots 
were  filled  with  water  and  his  clothes  wringing  wet. 
He  tried  to  mutter  a  prayer,  but  could  think  of  nothing 
except  "  My  godfathers  and  my  godmothers  in  my  bap- 


150     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

tism,"  and  that  kept  coming  up  again  and  again — why, 
he  could  not  tell.  He  was  certain  he  was  drifting  down 
the  stream,  and  that  he  was  lost  sure  enough. 

"  My  godfathers  and  my  godmothers  in  my  baptism — " 
he  kept  on  saying,  without  thinking.  "There!  the 
mare  is  only  floating  now.  My  godfathers  and  my  god- 
mothers in  my  baptism —  I  shall  be  drowned ;  I  am 
getting  weaker  all  the  time.  My  godfathers  and  my 
godmothers  in  my  baptism —  Confound  oysters  and 
oyster-feasts!  My  legs  are  freezing.  There  goes  my 
hat !  Oh,  my  godfathers  and  my  godmothers  in  my 
baptism — " 

And  thus  he  went  on,  his  heart  in  his  boots,  as  the 
saying  is,  and  afraid  every  moment  he  would  slip  off 
the  mare  or  she  would  sink  and  take  him  down. 

But  Providence  looks  after  good  men  such  as  he,  and 
it  was  decreed  that  Parson  Jones  should  escape.  He 
had  drifted  on  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  when  in 
mid-stream,  right  before  him,  he  saw  a  light.  It  was 
almost  level  with  the  water,  and  he  remembered  there 
was  a  mill  a  long  way  below  the  bridge.  He  shouted 
with  all  his  might,  but  no  answer.  He  pulled  the  bridle, 
and  the  sorrel  began  to  swim  again.  Then  he  saw  that 
the  light  shone  through  a  window,  and  in  a  minute  or 
two  he  was  floating  beside  it. 

"  Let  me  in  !"  he  cried,  rattling  the  panes  ;  and  some 
one  lifted  the  sash. 

A  leap :  he  was  on  the  sill,  and  the  mare  was  gone. 
It  was  no  easy  task  lifting  himself  up  through  the  nar- 
row space ;  a  desperate  effort  landed  him  safely  inside. 
By  the  candlelight  he  saw  a  young  woman  standing 
beside  some  bags  of  flour.  Her  face  was  white. 


AN  EVENING    WALK.  I$I 

"  Where  am  I  ?"  Parson  Jones  asked. 

"In  Redford  mill,  and  I  am  glad  somebody  has 
come,  for  I  am  all  alone  and  the  water  is  rising. 
Father  and  the  man  went  to  Beckett's  farm  this  morn- 
ing, and  now  they  cannot  get  back.  The  water  is  over 
the  second  floor.  Who  are  you  ?" 

"  I  am  John  Jones,  the  rector,  and  I  have  been  car- 
ried down  here  from  the  bridge." 

"Mr.  Jones,  the  minister,  that  is.  Then  I  am  not 
going  to  be  afraid  any  more." 

But  the  water  rose  fast  It  entered  the  story  where 
they  were. 

"  Is  there  anything  higher  than  this  ?"  asked  the 
parson. 

"  Only  the  garret,  and  there  are  rats  there." 

"  Never  mind  ;  we  must  try  it." 

They  went  up  into  the  garret ;  it  was  small  and  stifling. 
In  the  candlelight  they  saw  the  place  covered  with  rats. 
They  stood  on  the  landing,  not  venturing  among  the 
nibblers,  though  the  poor  things  were  terrified  to  help- 
lessness. The  candle  burnt  low ;  the  river  steadily  rose. 

"  Is  there  a  skylight?"  asked  Parson  Jones. 

"  Just  behind  you." 

"  Then  we  must  get  out  on  the  roof;  that  is  our  last 
chance.  My  godfathers  and  my —  Bother  the  thing ! 
Let  me  help  you  up,  and  then  I  can  clamber  through." 

So  he  lifted  the  girl  up,  and  by  dint  of  great  exertion 
he  followed.  They  sat  in  the  pelting  rain  by  the  chim- 
ney on  the  roof-ridge.  The  great  flood  surged  and 
sobbed  on  every  side — a  weird  sound. 

"  I  suppose  in  Noah's  flood  people  had  to  do  as  we 
are  doing,"  said  Madge,  after  a  long  silence. 


I $2     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

"  Oh,  my  godfa —  Confound  that !  Yes,  my  child,  I 
suppose  they  had.  Only  they  all  got  drowned ;  and 
when  Noah  looked  out  of  the  ark,  he  saw  them  floating 
like  reeds  on  the  water.  My  godfathers  and — " 

"  And  there  was  no  one  to  bury  them  ?" 

"  No ;  they  were  not  Christians." 

Another  silence. 

"  Madge  !"  whispered  the  parson. 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  Madge !" 

Still  no  answer. 

"  Is  she  dead  ?" 

Parson  Jones  touched  her  cold,  wet  face.  He  felt  it 
would  soon  be  all  over  with  him,  but  he  determined  to 
hold  her  body  as  long  as  he  could.  Perhaps  he  might 
be  saved,  and  poor  Madge  should  have  Christian 
burial. 

But  as  the  hours  passed  by  the  parson  grew  numb, 
and  before  he  could  arouse  himself  from  his  stupor  the 
body  slipped  down  the  roof  into  the  stream.  He  re- 
membered nothing  more  after  that.  When  he  opened 
his  eyes  next,  he  was  afraid  he  was  in  heaven.  Yet  that 
could  not  be,  for  the  sun  was  shining  brightly,  the  room 
was  warm,  people  were  moving  about,  and  he  was  in 
bed.  Weak  as  he  was,  he  knew  that  no  poet  had  said 
anything  about  beds  in  paradise.  He  was,  then,  alive. 
A  woman's  face  bent  over  him,  and  the  sympathetic 
voice  of  a  woman  greeted  him : 

"  Hush  !     Mr.  Jones,  the  Lord's  name  be  praised  !" 

"  My  godfa—" 

"  No,  no  !     You  must  keep  still  yet  a  while." 

When  he  was  stronger,  they  told  him  how  he  was 


AN  EVENING    WALK  153 

taken  off  the  roof  by  the  miller  and  by  some  men  in  a 
boat.  They  had  gone  for  Madge. 

"  Poor  Madge !"  said  the  parson ;  "  I  remember.  She 
died  and  slipped  into  the  water." 

"  She  slipped  into  the  water,  but  the  boat  was  close 
by  then  and  picked  her  up.  Here  she  is ;"  and  sitting 
in  a  great  arm-chair  by  the  fire  was  Madge,  very  white, 
but  living. 

Parson  Jones  rubbed  his  eyes : 

"  I  thought  she  was  dead." 

"Very  nearly.  Woefully  exhausted,  but  the  doctor 
brought  her  round,  praise  the  Lord !" 

No  one  in  that  part  of  the  country  ever  forgot  the 
great  flood,  the  parson  and  Madge  least  of  all.  Many 
people  lost  everything,  and  much  damage  was  done. 
Some  time  after,  the  parson  and  Madge  were  married ; 
for  the  parson  said  it  was  only  fitting  that  they  who 
were  spared  from  dying  together  should  for  the  rest  of 
their  days  live  together.  In  his  ninetieth  year  they  ate 
an  oyster-supper  with  their  grandchildren,  and  he  told 
anew  the  story  of  that  night.  Verily,  neighbors  all, 
there  are  strange  things  in  this  world ! 

Thus  far  Tippling  John.     And  now  good-night ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 

a  Eoton  in  tlje  OTijtlterns. 

"  He  plucks  the  wild  rose  in  the  woods 

And  gathers  eglantine, 
And  holds  the  golden  buttercups 
Beneath  his  sister's  chin." 

A  QUAINT  and  ancient  town  is  this  Watlington.  Its 
very  name  carries  one  back  to  British  times  when  the 
Dobuni  fenced  their  villages  with  trees  cut  down  and 
laid  across  one  another.  The  Saxons  called  this  mode 
of  fortification  watclar ;  hence  the  place  was  "  the  town 
of  the  wattles  "  or  "  hurdles."  A  picture  of  primitive 
life :  a  rude  clearing  in  the  great  beech-forest,  which 
then  extended  from  Kent  to  a  point  far  beyond  this,  a 
few  sheds  or  huts  for  a  simple  people  and  their  cattle, 
and  the  strange  manners  and  trying  privations  which 
were  involved  in  a  crude  civilization  and  an  almost  com- 
plete isolation.  There  are  neither  Roman  nor  Saxon 
remains  about  the  place,  so  far  as  I  know,  but  there  is  a 
delightful  look  of  old  times  both  in  the  narrow,  winding 
streets  and  in  some"  of  the  houses.  In  the  High  street 
is  a  tavern  styled  the  "  Barley-Mow,"  whose  blackened 
timbers  in  the  wall  indicate  considerable  age.  The  town- 
hall,  the  delight  of  artists  and  the  resort  of  hucksters, 
was  built  in  1664  by  Thomas  Stonor,  a  member  of  a 
family  which  from  the  twelfth  century  has  lived  in  the 

154 


A    TOWN  IN  THE   CHILTERNS.  155 

place  near  by  bearing  the  same  name.  Its  gray  mul- 
lions,  high-pointed  gables,  dark  arches,  antique  clock, 
nail-headed  door  and  general  appearance  furnish  a  per- 
fect and  pleasing  specimen  of  the  architecture  of  the  age 
when  England  was  rejoicing  in  the  restoration  of  its 
king  and  the  passing  away  of  Puritan  gloom  and  rigor. 

From  the  market-hall  southward  is  a  street  called 
Couching — to  which  I  will  return  by  and  by — and  this 
ends  in  the  road  leading  from  Henley,  the  oldest  place 
in  the  county,  to  Oxford,  the  most  celebrated.  A  pleas- 
ant road  it  is,  too,  running  in  one  direction  over  the  hills 
to  Nettlebed,  the  highest  point  of  the  Chilterns,  on  which 
a  windmill  spreads  its  sails  to  the  breezes  and  thick 
furze-bushes  dot  the  unenclosed  common.  In  the  other 
direction  the  road  passes  near  the  parish  church.  A 
rivulet,  tiny  and  clear,  flows  playfully  by  the  side  of  the 
way,  and  on  a  calm  Sunday  morning  the  melody  of  the 
church-bells  and  the  music  of  the  brook  blend  together 
in  sweet,  suggestive  harmony.  There  are  tall  hollyhocks 
in  the  gardens  and  bright  faces  in  the  cottage,  doorways, 
and  as  one  walks  on  one  would  think  this  was  amongst 
the  purest  and  the  brightest  spots  in  all  England.  So  it 
may  be,  but  a  certain  bishop  of  Oxford,  Samuel  Wilber- 
force  of  famous  memory,  declared  the  town  to  be  one  of 
the  worst  and  darkest  in  his  whole  diocese.  We  may 
not  dispute  His  Lordship's  judgment,  though  his  oppor- 
tunities for  personal  observation  were  limited  to  a  visit 
of  three  or  four  hours  once  in  every  third  year,  and  even 
in  his  day  the  old  church  used  to  be  well  filled  and  the 
people  sang  lustily  and  with  a  good  courage. 

The  place  belonged  to  the  abbey  of  St.  Mary's  at  Os- 
ney.  This  great  house  on  the  Ey,  near  the  Ousenford, 


156  THE  HEART  OF  M ERR  IE  ENGLAND. 

was  founded  in  the  reign  of  Henry  I.  by  Robert  d'Oily, 
a  nephew  of  the  knight  of  the  same  name  who  came 
over  with  the  Conqueror,  acquired  large  possessions  in 
this  county,  became  governor  of  Oxford,  and  among 
other  things  built  Shirbourne  Castle.  His  wife,  Eadgyth, 
once  a  mistress  of  the  king,  was  much  troubled  with  the 
constant  chattering  of  magpies  in  the  garden  of  the  cas- 
tle at  Oxford.  She  referred  the  subject  to  her  confessor, 
who,  knowing  the  language  of  birds,  told  her  that  the 
pies  were  none  other  than  souls  in  purgatory  beseeching 
her  for  prayers  to  release  them  from  their  bitter  pains. 
Thus  the  abbey  was  founded  and  endowed  with  much 
land,  Watlington  being  also  in  the  gift,  and  in  time  it  be- 
came magnificent  for  its  appointments,  "  the  envy  of  all 
other  religious  houses  in  England  and  beyond  the  seas." 
The  influence  in  it  was  rather  English  than  Norman  ;  at 
any  rate,  the  second  prior  and  the  first  abbot  had  the 
name,  and  probably  belonged  to  the  family,  of  Wiggod 
of  Wallingford,  an  old  Saxon  noble  who  contrived  to 
hold  his  own  under  William.  It  had  a  church  contain- 
ing many  chapels  and  twice  as  many  altars  as  there  were 
months  in  the  year.  Further  estates  were  bestowed  upon 
it,  kings  and  nobles  often  graced  it  with  their  presence, 
and  when  dissolved  its  revenue  was  between  six  and 
seven  hundred  pounds.  The  mercy  which  led  to  its  es- 
tablishment was  not  always  exhibited  within  its  walls. 
In  the  year  1222  there  was  a  singular  imposture  at  Ox- 
ford. A  man  proclaimed  himself  as  the  Messiah,  and 
exhibited  the  stigmata  in  his  body  as  proofs  of  his  asser- 
tion. Another  man  aided  him,  and  two  women  declared 
themselves  to  be  the  Marys.  Such  a  story  in  our  day 
would  be  treated  with  indifference,  but  the  thirteenth' 


A    TOWN  IN  THE   CHIL TERNS.  157 

century  was  more  serious  and  severe.  The  four  impos- 
tors were  brought  to  trial  in  Osney  Abbey;  the  men 
were  sent,  one  to  crucifixion,  the  other  to  fire,  and  the 
women  were  condemned  to  be  built  up  alive  in  the  walls 
of  the  abbey.  The  sentence  of  living  entombment  was 
carried  into  effect.  We  must  not  judge  the  people  of 
bygone  ages  as  we  would  judge  ourselves,  only  it  is 
curious  that  consideration  for  the  souls  in  purgatory  does 
not  seem  to  have  induced  consideration  for  the  souls  in 
heresy,  except  that  material  fire  is  easier  to  bear  than 
spiritual,  and  may,  indeed,  preclude  it. 

The  good  fathers  of  Osney,  however,  must  not  be  con- 
demned upon  an  event  which  happened  incidentally  in 
the  course  of  their  four  centuries  of  history,  and  which 
was,  indeed,  brought  about  by  a  tribunal  presided  over 
by  one  of  the  greatest  and  best  of  the  primates,  Stephen 
Langton,  and  composed  of  members  mostly  outside  of 
their  society.  They  did  much  for  the  upbuilding  of  the 
people  around  them.  In  common  with  other  monas- 
teries, the  ecclesiastical  livings  which  were  appropriated 
to  them,  and  of  which  they  became  rectors,  were  fairly 
well  cared  for  by  them  and  served  by  their  vicar.  They 
received  the  great  or  rectorial  tithes,  and  the  priest  who 
did  the  duty,  but  was  not  responsible  for  the  temporal- 
ities, was  supported  out  of  them,  or  by  what  were  known 
as  "  the  small  tithes."  When  the  abbey  was  broken  up, 
instead  of  restoring  the  rectory  to  the  clergyman  of  the 
parish,  it,  with  the  lands  of  the  Church  belonging  to  the 
religious  house,  was  granted  to  some  courtier  whose  in- 
terest it  was  to  blacken  the  character  of  the  monks  be- 
yond all  possible  recognition,  and  whose  inheritors  still 
retain,  and  unrighteously  retain,  that  which  does  not  be- 


158      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

long  to  them.  The  wrong  was  wrought  throughout  the 
realm,  and  on  the  ruins  of  the  monastic  houses  grew  up 
a  society  new  without  nobility  and  powerful  without 
Tightness.  Hence  there  are  lay  rectors  who  fill  the  place 
of  the  old  monks,  and  the  spiritual  functions  of  the  office 
are  performed  by  a  clergyman  who  is  called,  and  actually 
is,  the  vicar,  the  substitute  and  deputy  of  the  rector. 
Whether  lay  rectors  are  better  than  monastic  rectors  is 
not  for  me  to  say,  nor  is  it  possible  until  the  problem  is 
satisfactorily  solved  whether  man  as  a  squire  or  man  as 
a  monk  is  the  better  fitted  to  be  the  guardian  of  the  peo- 
ple's spiritual  rights.  Any  way,  the  Austin  Canons  of 
the  abbey  in  th,e  Meadow  Island  built  the  church  at 
Watlington,  and  some  of  their  work  remains  in  the 
present  edifice. 

It  is  not  much  of  a  building.  It  was  not  much  before 
its  restoration,  ten  years  since ;  it  is  still  less  now.  The 
high  red-tile  roof  of  the  restored  portion  does  not  cor- 
respond with  the  flat  lead  roof  of  the  part  not  touched, 
and  there  is  striking  incongruity  inside  between  the  new 
and  the  old.  Formerly  the  chapel  on  the  south  side  was 
secluded  and  separate.  There  were  tombs  in  there,  and 
an  iron  railing  divided  them  from  the  body  of  the  church. 
I  remember,  when  the  "  forty  years  long  "  in  the  Venite 
was  reached,  I  used  to  look  toward  that  dark  corner  and 
wonder  if  they  who  rested  there  were  of  the  generation 
that  grieved  the  Almighty.  I  did  not  know  who  were 
buried  within  the  sacred  precincts,  but  there  were  hatch- 
ments, dingy  and  dusty,  hanging  high  up  on  the  chan- 
cel-walls, and  brasses  four  hundred  years  old.  There 
was  no  chapel  or  transept  on  the  north  side,  but  the 
chancel  was  long  and  filled  with  pews  arranged  in  the 


A    TOWN  IN  THE    CHILTERNS.  159 

usual  choir  or  college  fashion.  The  pulpit  was  a  mighty 
structure,  standing  at  the  east  entrance  of  the  nave,  and 
had  the  appearance  of  being  halfway  down  the  church. 
A  flight  of  steps  led  up  into  the  great  square  reading- 
pew,  and  from  that  another  flight  led  up  into  the  pulpit, 
which  stood  upon  one  post,  was  round  and  had  a  sound- 
ing-board and  a  great  red  cushion.  There  was  some- 
thing of  the  highest  dignity  in  the  way  the  venerable 
vicar  in  silken  gown  and  white  bands  smoothed  his  ser- 
mon on  this  cushion  and  cleared  his  throat  preparatory 
to  his  fifty-minute  delivery.  The  new  school  of  divines 
cannot  approach  the  old  clergy  in  official  gracefulness ; 
they  have  lost  their  dignity  in  short  surplices  and  thin 
essays.  Opposite  the  pulpit,  immediately  across  the 
passage,  was  the  little  desk  for  the  parish  clerk,  a  pre- 
cise, prompt,  rotund  and  ruddy  individual,  short  in  stat- 
ure and  a  carpenter  by  trade,  who  used  to  strut  up  and 
down  the  chancel  before  the  parson,  open  the  door  of 
the  reading-pew  or  pulpit,  shut  him  in,  and  when  it  was 
time  let  him  out  again  with  a  gravity  and  primness  which 
astonished  strangers  and  delighted  the  parishioners.  He 
used  also  to  make  the  responses  in  a  loud  tone,  the  only 
soul  in  the  church  that  presumed  to  do  so,  and  he  an- 
nounced the  hymns  in  a  sonorous  voice,  absolutely 
inimitable,  prefaced  with  the  invariable  "  Let  us  sing  to 
the  praise  and  the  glory  of  God."  Perhaps  the  custom 
of  the  clerk  instead  of  the  parson  giving  out  the  hymn 
arose  from  the  fact  that  once  upon  a  time  he  was  prob- 
ably choirmaster,  if  not  choir,  and  would  therefore  be  best 
able  to  judge  of  what  came  within  the  compass  of  his 
powers.  Sometimes  it  fell  to  his  duty  to  trip  down  the 
church  and  up  into  the  loft  or  gallery  at  the  west  end, 
11 


l6o  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

where  the  singers  and  the  poor-school  children  sat,  and 
rebuke  the  bad  boy  who  would  not  observe  order  during 
the  service.  Occasionally  he  would  bring  the  said  bad 
boy  back  with  him  and  stand  him  on  the  pulpit  steps,  at 
once  a  punishment  to  the  offender  and  an  admonition  to 
the  offending.  The  restoration  of  the  church  has  swept 
out  that  noble  and  worthy  functionary ;  he  is  no  more, 
either  in  office  or  in  person,  and  somehow  or  other,  dear 
as  he  was  in  the  eyes  and  the  ears  of  the  faithful,  things 
go  on.  without  him. 

Time  has  also  removed  another  individual,  a  trim, 
correct  bachelor  who  for  years  sat  in  the  great  square 
pew  under  the  pulpit.  Wet  or  fine  this  gentleman  was 
always  in  his  place,  and  wet  or  fine  he  had  always  a  stiff 
high  collar  and  a  big  white  cravat.  He  was  the  ad- 
mired of  all  admirers,  and  every  unmarried  lady  of 
middle  or  uncertain  age  in  the  church  used  to  wonder 
when  the  eventful  day  of  his  life  would  arrive  and  if 
she  could  possibly  do  up  his  collars.  When  the  ser- 
mon became  unusually  dry,  people  relieved  the  monot- 
ony by  watching  the  flies  on  the  bare  round  place  at 
the  back  of  his  head  enjoying  themselves  in  ways  con- 
genial to  their  nature.  He  rarely  interfered  with  them ; 
when  he  did,  he  lifted  his  hand  gently,  slowly,  aimfully, 
and  then  at  the  proper  moment  brought  it  down  with  a 
smart  slap  upon  the  caputial  vacancy,  only  to  find  that 
the  offending  diptera  had  left  the  infinitesimal  part  of  a 
moment  before.  No  matter  how  serious  the  sermon, 
this  slightly  upset  the  spectators.  They  neither  said 
anything  nor  laughed  aloud,  but  they  turned  very  red 
and  bent  over,  as  if  for  private  prayer.  It  was  rumored 
that  he  was  in  love  with  a  venerable  maiden-lady  some 


A    TOWN  IN  THE   CHILTERNS.  l6l 

fifteen  years  his  senior,  a  sweet  and  gentle  creature  who, 
though  she  was  suspected  of  wearing  a  wig  and  of  hav- 
ing lost  some  teeth  in  the  conflict  with  time,  considered 
it  best  to  wait  a  little  longer  before  she  threw  herself 
away,  even  upon  a  highly-respectable  bachelor.  She 
sat  some  distance  from  him  inside  the  chancel,  and, 
like  him,  was  always  in  her  place  and  always  devout. 
Both  are  now  sleeping  in  the  graveyard  outside. 

The  old  tower  remains,  partly  covered  with  ivy.  On 
its  highest  ledge,  on  the  north  side,  a  good-sized  bush 
has  been  growing  for  some  years;  probably  the  seed 
was  carried  up  by  a  bird  and  dropped  into  the  mortar. 
At  the  south-west  corner  of  the  tower  is  a  yew  tree,  the 
trunk  of  which  four  feet  from  the  ground  measures  ten 
feet  eight  inches  in  circumference.  It  is  most  likely 
three  or  four  centuries  old.  The  ancients  planted  the 
yew  to  protect  the  church  from  evil  spirits,  also  to  sup- 
ply wood  for  their  bows.  The  torches  of  the  Furies 
were  made  of  yew,  and  on  the  Sunday  next  before 
Easter  its  boughs  were  used  instead  of  palm  or  olive. 
It  had  a  symbolism  which  spoke  to  all — the  dark  color 
of  the  mortality  of  man,  the  seemingly  unfailing  trunk 
of  immortality,  and  hence,  perhaps,  its  name,  ewigt 
"  everlasting."  Gilbert  White  thinks  the  more  respect- 
able parishioners  were  buried  under  this  tree,  and  that 
it  was  also  designed  as  a  shelter  to  the  congregation 
assembling  before  the  church  doors  were  opened. 
Some  have  supposed  it  further  served  to  shield  the 
sacred  edifice  from  the  storm.  Its  leaves  are  poison 
and  its  wood  was  used  for  the  instruments  of  death ; 
therefore  Shakespeare  calls  it  "  double-fated."  On  Sun- 
days, contrary  to  the  canon  against  loiterers,  the  idle 


1 62      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

youth  used  to  gather  at  this  tower  corner  and  under 
this  tree,  much  to  the  annoyance  of  passers-by,  who 
were  too  often  the  subjects  of  their  witticisms.  The 
carved  figures  to  the  waterspouts  are  as  formerly,  and 
besides  them  are  two  heads,  the  one  on  the  west  and 
the  other  to  the  east  of  the  south  porch.  These  two 
figures  are  interesting.  The  former  is  looking  down  the 
main  pathway  to  the  church,  with  the  left  hand  holding 
the  robe  over  the  breast  and  the  right  hand  shading  the 
eyes,  anxiously  watching  for  the  coming  worshippers ; 
the  latter,  overlooking  the  main  portion  of  the  grave- 
yard, has  a  mingled  aspect  of  sorrow,  sympathy  and 
hope,  as  though  it  extended  these  to  the  weary  ones 
who  came  to  weep  at  the  graves  of  their  dead.  The 
tombstones  appear  old,  but  are  not  really  so.  The  at- 
mosphere soon  darkens  them,  lichen  covers  them,  and 
they  speedily  chip  and  crumble  away. 

I  named  Couching  street;  let  us  return  thither  and 
pick  up  a  few  reminiscences  there.  Years  ago  I  used 
to  puzzle  over  its  etymology.  Had  Osney  Abbey  be- 
longed to  the  Crutched  Friars,  I  should  have  been 
tempted  to  think  it  was  a  corruption  of  their  name; 
and  once  I  came  near  fancying  it  might  formerly  have 
been  Crouch  for  the  Croce  of  Doomsday.  These,  how- 
ever, were  no  more  satisfactory  than  the  suggestion  of 
one  who  thought  it  meant  Sleepy  street  because  it  was 
so  quiet.  In  Old  English  there  was  such  a  word  as 
couchen  or  cowchyn,  meaning  "  to  place  or  set  together," 
and  possibly,  as  the  houses  or  cottages  which  compose 
this  street  were  built  up  till  they  became  continuous, 
the  name  was  thus  given.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Couching 
is  a  narrow,  still  street  with  rough  pebbles  most  of  its 


A    TOWN  IN  THE   CHILTERNS.  163 

length  for  the  sidewalk,  one  or  two  inns,  a  few  shops, 
some  private  residences  and  a  malt-house.  At  the  back 
of  the  houses  on  the  south  side  of  the  street  are  gardens 
opening  into  a  lane,  beyond  which  lie  open  fields  run- 
ning up  to  the  rolling  hills  a  mile  away.  At  one  end  of 
this  lane  a  plank  serves  as  a  bridge  into  the  Henley 
road  across  the  babbling  brooklet  already  mentioned ;  the 
other  end  leads  into  the  highway  up  to  the  White  Mark. 
In  the  street  and  in  the  lane  Chanticleer  and  his  company 
scratch  for  a  living,  and  a  pig  occasionally  seeks  for  gar- 
bage. Little  occurs  in  this  neighborhood  to  disturb  the 
restful  monotony.  When  a  trap  rattles  over  the  hard 
road  or  a  hen  cackles,  most  of  the  old  ladies  run  to  the 
windows  to  satisfy  their  curiosity ;  and  when  the  con- 
stable succeeds  in  taking  a  drunken  man  to  the  lock- 
up, close  by,  they  become  so  excited  as  to  need  some- 
thing stronger  in  their  tea  than  either  milk,  sugar,  water 
or  the  uninebriating  herb  itself.  At  the  time  the  prince 
of  Wales  was  married,  and  a  brass  band  from  Walling- 
ford  played  "All  among  the  Barley"  as  it  passed 
through  the  streets,  the  Union  Jack  waving  in  its 
glory  and  a  goodly  company  of  men  and  boys  follow- 
ing and  shouting  with  soul-stirring  vigor,  it  is  said  it 
took  so  much  hot  water,  sugar  and  brandy  to  calm  the 
nerves  of  the  people  and  to  allay  their  heart-throbbing 
loyalty  that  the  town  was  in  danger  of  being  left  with- 
out a  drop  of  distilled  liquor  in  it.  Such  a  crisis  has 
never  been  reached  since.  Most  of  the  ancient  inhab- 
itants of  the  place  keep  a  little  on  hand  against  emer- 
gencies and  hysterics,  and  before  this  is  exhausted  the 
new  railway,  which  seems  to  have  little  else  to  do, 
replenishes  the  supply. 


164  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

It  matters  little  into  which  house  we  enter  in  this 
street ;  each  will  furnish  us  with  a  picture  more  or  less 
pleasing  of  quiet  life.  Here  is  one,  a  comfortable-look- 
ing two-story  brick  domicile,  a  bay-window  on  eacfi  side 
of  the  front  door,  and,  opposite,  the  bonnet-like  chimney 
of  the  malt-house.  The  street  door  has  a  knocker  and 
a  bright  brass  handle ;  it  is  also  panelled  and  has  suf- 
ficient projection  over  it  in  the  way  of  a  pent-house  to 
bring  the  rain-drippings  exactly  on  the  middle  of  one's 
umbrella  when  standing  underneath.  There  was  design 
in  this  last  feature:  a  tramp  on  a  stormy  day  would 
avoid  getting  wet  through  for  the  sake  of  a  crust  of 
bread  or  a  crusty  refusal.  Inside  is  a  short  passageway 
or  hall,  on  the  right  side  of  which  a  door  opened  into 
the  parlor,  and  on  the  left  a  door  into  the  sitting-room, 
through  which  one  passed  into  the  kitchen,  and  hence 
into  one  of  the  sweetest  of  gardens.  At  the  end  of  the 
passage  a  flight  of  stairs  neatly  carpeted  led  to  the  three 
or  four  upper  rooms.  Thirty  years  since,  for  three 
hours  in  the  forenoon  and  three  hours  in  the  afternoon, 
a  number  of  respectable  young  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
sons  and  daughters  of  the  best  of  the  local  society,  met 
in  the  parlor  for  instruction  in  the  rudiments  of  a  polite 
education.  The  terms  were  not  high — one  guinea  a 
quarter,  and  a  crown  extra  for  French,  music  or  good 
manners.  A  shoulder-board  for  the  young  ladies  and  a 
cane  for  the  young  gentlemen  were  the  means  of  disci- 
plining the  juvenile  mind  and  body  into  the  ways  of  rec- 
titude and  industry.  The  former  went  the  round  of  the 
girls  every  day,  and  their  time  devoted  to  it  was  in  pro- 
portion to  their  numbers.  If  there  were  twelve  of  them, 
each  spent  half  an  hour  a  day  standing  up  and  holding 


A    TOWN  IN  THE   CHIL TERNS.  165 

in  proper  position  the  instrument  for  making  square 
shoulders ;  if  there  were  six,  each  had  an  hour  a  day. 
The  girls  were,  therefore,  interested  in  keeping  up  the 
numbers  and  attendance.  At  the  same  time  the  one 
undergoing  the  gentle  process  had  to  commit  to  mem- 
ory a  page  or  so  of  Mrs.  Magnall's  questions  or  one  of 
the  psalms  of  David,  the  book  being  placed  on  a  desk 
before  her.  Frequently  a  weaker  girl  could  not  com- 
plete her  time,  but  it  was  so  arranged  that  during  school- 
hours  the  board  was  always  in  use;  a  stronger  pupil 
took  her  place  and  filled  up  the  spare  minutes  in  addi- 
tion to  her  own  share.  The  good  lady  who  managed 
the  establishment  had  gone  through  this  process  her- 
self in  the  days  when  the  French  Revolution  wa*s  up- 
setting things  on  the  Continent,  and  she  knew  the  value 
and  the  benefit  of  such  a  training.  Only  in  this  way 
could  the  backs  of  young  ladies  be  fitted  to  the  straight- 
backed  chairs  of  the  period.  As  to  the  young  gentle- 
men, the  discipline  of  the  cane  fell  to  the  lot  of  one  in 
turn  each  day.  The  more  boys  there  were,  the  longer 
the  interval  between  the  individual's  portion.  About 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  forenoon,  when  the  potatoes  were 
peeled  and  the  pudding  was  in  the  pot  ready  for  dinner, 
the  lady  of  the  school  took  the  victim  for  the  day  out 
into  the  kitchen.  Everybody  knew  the  purpose — the 
boys  by  experience,  the  girls  by  information.  Very  lit- 
tle was  said.  The  youth  followed  the  instructions  given, 
adjusted  his  clothing  and  extended  himself  full  length 
upon  a  bench.  All  that  followed  was  without  fear  or 
favor.  The  red  eyes  of  the  lad  when  he  returned  to  the 
room  showed  the  immediate  effects ;  time  has  made 
manifest  the  permanent  results.  Every  lad  who  came 


1 66     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

under  the  tuition  and  training  of  this  school  turned  out 
well,  and  some  have  made  positions  for  themselves  in 
the  world. 

The  school  was  popular,  for  the  lady  at  its  head  had 
been  a  governess  in  the  family  of  a  great  bishop  and 
wrote  a  neat  Italian  hand.  She  was  a  maiden  of  many 
years'  standing,  short  and  stout,  with  a  kindly  face  and 
a  profusion  of  curls,  dignified  and  exact,  and,  withal, 
humorous  and  lively.  She  wore  a  silk  dress  and  a 
heavy  gold  watch-chain,  and  about  her  there  was  a  frag- 
rance of  lavender  which  suggested  the  wardrobe  and 
the  herb-garden.  It  was  commonly  reported  that  once 
she  had  suffered  shipwreck.  This  was  in  the  Irish  Sea, 
and  was  confirmed  by  one  of  the  boys,  who  said  that 
the  paper  of  an  old  geography  locked  up  in  her  book- 
case had  the  blue  tinge  of  the  sea  and  left  the  taste  of 
salt  upon  the  tongue.  Any  way,  she  had  travelled  both 
in  Ireland  and  in  Wales  and  was  a  well-informed  and 
well-read  woman.  That  she  was  a  Tory  goes  for  the 
saying :  her  romantic  spirit  led  her  to  love  the  days  of 
chivalry  and  the  traditions  of  the  Church.  Many  a 
tale  she  told  of  valiant  knight  and  holy  bishop,  of  gay 
tournament  and  adventurous  voyage,  while  her  eyes 
glistened  with  enthusiasm  and  her  voice  quivered  with 
emotion  as  she  spoke  of  the  battle  of  Roncesvalle  and 
the  dauntless  Roland,  of  Runnymede  and  the  noble 
Langton,  of  Drake  and  of  Raleigh,  and,  above  all,  of 
Bonnie  Prince  Charlie.  There  was  not  a  boy  who 
heard  her  that  did  not  wish  to  become  crusader,  re- 
former or  navigator,  and  to  perform  deeds  as  marvellous 
as  those  of  a  Robin  Hood  or  a  Robinson  Crusoe  ;  there 
was  not  a  girl  who  did  not  wish  she  had  been  Mary 


A    TOWN  IN  THE   CHILTERNS.  1 67 

queen  of  Scots,  or  at  least  the  lord  mayor's  daughter 
whom  the  apprentice  saved  from  drowning  in  the 
Thames.  They  forgave  her  for  making  them  recite  the 
collect  and  the  gospel  for  the  week  first  thing  on  Mon- 
day morning,  and  as  the  girls  forgot  the  shoulder-boards 
in  the  fairy's  wand,  and  the  boys  the  cane  in  the  knight's 
lance,  so  all  agreed  that  for  a  story  of  good  times  and 
of  old  times  their  mistress  could  not  be  equalled. 

Occasionally  the  exercises  of  the  school  were  varied 
by  an  afternoon's  outing.  Sometimes  the  destination 
was  that  delightful  hill  known  as  the  Cuckoo  Pen.  This 
required  an  early  start,  as  it  was  some  three  miles  dis- 
tant. At  one  o'clock  the  school  assembled  —  about 
twenty,  all  told — and  gravely  and  demurely  walked 
through  the  streets  two  and  two,  the  eldest  girls  first, 
after  the  girls  the  boys,  and  in  the  rear  the  good  old  lady 
carrying  a  large  parasol  and  reticule.  Up  Couching 
street,  by  the  town-hall,  round  the  butcher's  shop  and 
up  the  road  to  the  White  Mark.  No  talking,  no  laugh- 
ing, no  breaking  of  the  procession  till  the  foot  of  the 
hill  was  reached,  but  then  in  the  grass-covered  road  by 
the  chalk-pits,  where  wicked  young  men  used  to  play 
cricket  on  Sunday  afternoons,  the  most  unrestrained 
mirth.  Gayly  and  lightsomely  the  school  wended  its 
way  through  that  wide  shady  lane,  past  Bacon  Hill,  to 
the  Cuckoo  Pen.  How  merrily  the  young  folks  chat- 
tered and  sang,  now  racing  over  the  thick  sward,  now 
plucking  wild  flowers  or  blackberries  from  the  hedges, 
and  now  jumping  leapfrog,  skipping  or  playing  ball !  I 
see  them  now  as  I  saw  them  one  bright  August  day  a 
quarter  of  a  century  since.  There  are  our  three  Pyrton 
boys,  gay,  lively  youngsters,  the  eldest  nearly  fourteen ; 


1 68  THE  HEART  OF  M ERR  IE  ENGLAND. 

there  is  our  pretty  Eva,  the  daintiest  and  sweetest  of  all 
the  maidens.  There  are  other  boys,  but  none  so  noble 
as  Arthur  from  Pyrton ;  there  are  other  girls,  but  none 
so  queenly  as  Eva.  Through  the  gate  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill  they  rush  ;  up  the  steep  sides  they  clamber.  There 
are  steps  cut  in  the  steepest  places,  and  the  moss  and  the 
grass  are  soft  and  slippery.  On  the  summit  is  a  fine 
copse,  another  a  little  farther  back,  and  behind  that  and 
stretching  far  away  into  the  valley  between  the  hills  a 
thick  greenwood.  The  view  from  the  top  is  fine,  and  on 
the  edge  of  the  first  copse  there  was  a  double-trunked 
tree  in  the  deep  fork  of  which  one  or  two  of  the  more 
venturesome  boys  used  to  sit.  In  front  of  this  tree  all 
assemble,  and  after  a  while  the  cake  and  the  ginger-beer 
arrive.  The  soft  winds  fan  the  rosy  cheeks  and  cool  the 
tired  limbs ;  some  of  the  youngsters  wander  in  twos  and 
threes  into  the  wood,  some  gather  moss  or  catch  grass- 
hoppers, and  some  roll  down  the  hillside  over  thistles 
and  through  furze.  There  is  Ben  almost  in  the  top  of 
that  big  beech  tree,  his  white  trousers  soiled  with  green 
off  the  bark,  and  there  is  Eva,  the  little  puss,  not  ten 
years  old,  sitting  on  the  ground  with  a  boy  by  her  side 
and  her  hand  in  his.  "  Will  you  marry  me  when  you 
grow  up,  Eva?" — "Yes,  if  you  will  be  a  doctor  like 
papa."  Here  comes  George  with  a  paper  box  full  of 
grasshoppers,  and  Arthur  with  a  fledgling  which  he  has 
caught.  Everybody  runs  to  see  the  bird.  "  Poor 
thing !" — "  Feathers  scarcely  grown  !" — "  Cruel !" — "  Let 
it  go !"  and,  somehow  or  other,  there  is  a  chilly  feeling 
comes  over  all  when  the  captive  is  taken  back  to  the 
neighborhood  of  the  nest  and  released.  On  the  way 
home  everybody  walks  slower  and  there  is  less  noise. 


A    TOWN  IN  THE   CHILTERNS.  169 

But,  though  tired,  each  scholar  owns  that  an  afternoon 
on  the  Cuckoo  Pen  is  about  the  best  fun  that  can  be  in 
this  world,  and  the  next  morning  even  the  shoulder- 
board  and  the  French  verb  are  easy,  and  the  boy  whose 
turn  it  is  to  become  acquainted  with  the  cane  thinks 
flagellation  uncomfortable,  to  be  sure,  but  nevertheless 
bearable  after  a  day  of  such  rare  delight. 

In  the  room  on  the  other  side,  opposite  to  that  in 
which  the  school  met,  might  be  seen  at  any  time  between 
seven  and  nine  o'clock  in  the  forenoon,  and  after  five  till 
a  quarter-past  ten  in  the  evening,  another  old  lady,  sister 
to  the  maiden-mistress  in  the  parlor.  She  was  not  the 
opposite  of  her  sister,  but  the  same  sort  of  person,  only 
on  a  reduced  scale.  Her  tastes,  ideas,  sentences,  habits 
and  the  rest  were  the  same,  only  less  magnificent.  She 
could  not  teach  French,  but  she  could  make  excellent 
elderberry  wine,  and,  as  every  one  knows,  elderberry 
wine,  warmed  and  spiced,  with  biscuit  or  toast,  is  better 
on  a  wintry  night  before  going  to  bed  than  the  most  cor- 
rect speech  of  Paris.  Her  sister  wore  silk ;  she,  having 
the  house  to  look  after,  used  prints  and  stuffs.  Both  had 
spectacles — the  one  gold  rimmed,  the  other  brass  cov- 
ered with  flannel.  She  was  a  treasurer  of  antiquity. 
The  sofa  under  the  window  at  the  far  side  of  the  room 
was  made  before  men  ceased  to  write  "  1700"  at  the  top 
of  their  letters.  Over  the  mantel  was  a  picture  of  a  Re- 
bekah  at  the  well,  a  very  English  scene  as  old  as  the 
sofa,  and  above  it  were  three  or  four  bulrush-heads  which 
had  not  been  removed  for  a  generation  at  least.  A  curi- 
ous portrait  of  an  old  lady  who  died  actually  one  hun- 
dred and  three  years  old — traditionally,  one  hundred  and 
thirty — placed  beside  one  of  a  rosy-cheeked  boy  of  five, 


I/O  THE  HEART  OF  ME  ERIE  ENGLAND. 

brought  into  contrast  "  crabbed  age  and  youth."  A  desk 
made  in  the  year  1827  out  of  a  yew  tree  reputed  at  the 
time  when  cut  down  to  be  at  least  five  hundred  years  old 
was  one  of  her  greatest  delights.  That  tree  may  have 
furnished  some  of  the  archers  of  Agincourt  with  their 
bows,  and  it  may  have  been  planted  from  a  tree  which 
was  young  when  Harold  sat  in  the  throne  at  Westmin- 
ster. Her  spare  time  was  spent  in  thinking  over  the 
possibilities  of  that  tree,  and  doubtless  many  a  pleasant 
vision  passed  before  her.  In  two  things  she  had  received 
a  fuller  development  than  her  sister  :  she  had  a  belief  in 
ghosts,  and  she  was  fond  of  the  garden.  The  former 
she  sought  to  propitiate  by  saying  as  little  about  them 
as  possible ;  to  the  latter  she  gave  four  or  five  hours  of 
every  fine  day.  She  had  plum  trees,  apricots  and  vines, 
gooseberry-  and  raspberry -bushes,  strawberries  and  clus- 
ters of  carnations,  roses,  gillyflowers,  daffodils,  daisies, 
honeysuckle,  and  even  potatoes  and  cabbages.  It  was  a 
frequent  observation  of  hers  that  for  beauty  lilies  in  a 
vase,  and  for  usefulness  parsnips  in  a  dish,  had  no  equals. 
Life  flowed  on  easily  with  the  sisters,  and  little  came  in 
to  disturb  their  peace.  Once  in  a  very  long  while  one 
of  them  went  up  to  London,  but  there  were  no  charms 
in  the  city  for  them.  Now  they  lie  side  by  side  near  the 
east  end  of  the  chapel  at  the  parish  church. 

Before  we  leave  this  house  let  me  take  you  to  a  room 
up  stairs  looking  out  toward  the  hills.  The  walls  are 
covered  with  designs  of  roses — old-fashioned,  indeed, 
and  highly  colored,  but  the  trailing  vines  run  up  from 
floor  to  ceiling,  green  leaves,  mossy  buds  and  brilliant 
blooms,  with  a  suggestiveness  as  true  as  that  the  highest 
art  could  give.  Everything  is  scrupulously  clean,  the 


A    TOWN  IN  THE    CHIL TERNS.  17 1 

carpet,  of  wondrous  devices  and  faded  tints,  the  figured 
dimity  on  the  bedstead,  the  rush-bottom  chairs,  the  chest 
of  drawers  with  the  oval  looking-glass  on  top,  the  can- 
dlestick and  the  snuffer-tray,  the  black-oak  coffer, — all 
as  dustless  as  they  are  homely.  There  is  but  one  win- 
dow in  the  room,  for  the  house  was  built  when  windows 
were  taxed.  It  opens  after  the  manner  of  the  old  lattices 
and  has  the  small  lozenge-shaped  panes.  Inside,  soft- 
shaded  curtains  hang  on  both  sides  of  the  recess,  in 
which  is  a  low  seat  under  the  casement,  cushioned  and 
fastened  into  the  wall ;  outside,  a  grape-vine  twines  its 
tendrils  and  sets  its  leaves  thick  all  around,  hiding  the 
wall  and  the  woodwork,  and  in  the  autumn  rich  purple 
clusters  are  within  reach  of  the  hand.  But  it  is  the  view 
from  the  window  that  is  the  chief  delight.  Whenever  I 
see  it,  I  am  reminded  of  the  Pilgrim  at  the  House  Beau- 
tiful :  "  When  the  morning  was  up,  they  had  him  to  the 
top  of  the  house,  and  bid  him  look  south.  So  he  did, 
and  behold,  at  a  great  distance,  he  saw  a  most  pleasant, 
mountainous  country,  beautified  with  woods,  vineyards, 
fruits  of  all  sorts,  flowers  also,  with  springs  and  foun- 
tains, very  delectable  to  behold."  I  do  not  say  that  the 
picture  is  as  lovely  as  that  of  the  Delectable  Mountains, 
but  seen  in  the  glow  of  the  early  sunlight  it  is  not  alto- 
gether unworthy  of  comparison ;  indeed,  it  is  probable 
that  from  such  a  scene  Bunyan  drew  his  inspiration. 
There  lie  the  hills — graceful  lines  against  the  horizon, 
the  green  of  the  fields  and  woods  making  more  intense 
the  white  of  the  chalk- pits  and  roads.  At  the  foot  of 
the  Mark  are  the  wheat-  and  barley-fields ;  and  when 
the  July  winds  gently  pass  over  the  wide  reaches  of  tall 
grain,  sweeping  it  into  waves  like  those  of  some  sea- 


1/2      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

waters,  they  look  like  rich  plush  smoothed  by  a  soft 
hand.     What  says  the  old  song? 

"  Come  out !  'tis  now  September : 

The  hunter's  moon's  begun, 
And  through  the  wheaten  stubble 

Is  heard  the  frequent  gun ; 
The  leaves  are  paling  yellow 

Or  kindling  into  red, 
And  the  ripe  and  golden  barley 

Is  hanging  down  his  head. 

"  All  among  the  barley, 

"Who  would  not  be  blithe 
When  the  free  and  happy  barley 
Is  smiling  on  the  scythe  ? 

"  The  Spring  she  is  a  young  maid 

That  does  not  know  her  mind ; 
The  Summer  is  a  tyrant 

Of  most  unrighteous  kind ; 
The  Autumn  is  an  old  friend 

That  loves  one  all  he  can, 
And  that  brings  the  happy  barley 

To  glad  the  heart  of  man. 

"  All  among  the  barley,  etc. 

"  The  wheat  is  like  a  rich  man 

That's  sleek  and  well-to-do; 
The  oats  are  like  a  pack  of  girls 

Laughing  and  dancing  too ; 
The  rye  is  like  a  miser 

That's  sulky,  lean  and  small ; 
But  the  free  and  bearded  barley 

Is  the  monarch  of  them  all. 

"  All  among  the  barley,  etc." 

Sing  the  good  old  lines  to  the  accompaniment  of  the 
guitar  in  the  open  air  of  the  closing  summer  twilight, 


A    TOWN  IN  THE    CHILTERNS.  173 

with  a  "  pack  of  girls  "  and  their  swains,  happy-hearted 
and  sweet-voiced,  to  join  in  the  chorus,  and  a  strange 
delight  will  be  yours  for  the  time  and  a  pleasant  memory 
yours  for  ever.  Then  you  will  enjoy  with  deeper  zest 
and  fuller  inspiration  the  picture  of  the  fields  of  grain. 
A  pleasant  sight  it  is  to  see  the  harvest-moon  shining 
on  the  standing  shocks  of  corn ;  pleasanter,  to  see  the 
poor  and  needy  leasing  after  the  reapers.  How  strange 
appears  the  one  tree  in  the  middle  of  yonder  field,  thick 
with  leaves  and  casting  a  deep  shadow  in  which  the 
sheep  rest  during  the  noontide  heat,  but  seemingly  lost 
in  its  solitude !  There  are  nuts  in  the  high  hedges  for 
squirrels  and  truant  boys,  and  sloes  and  crab-apples. 
In  the  deserted  rooks'  nests  among  the  elms  far  away 
toward  the  Nettlebed  road  the  fierce  and  indolent  spar- 
rowhawk  sometimes  rears  its  young,  and  excites  at  once 
the  fear  of  the  smaller  birds,  the  desires  of  the  town-lads 
and  the  ire  of  the  gamekeeper.  How  gently  the  clouds 
rest  in  the  blue  sky !  And  the  earth  seems  to  sleep  in 
its  calm  and  lovely  splendor — no  care,  no  sorrow, 
quietly  doing  its  work  and  not  suffering  the  mind  to 
dwell  upon  the  winter  of  nature  nor  upon  the  storms 
which  try  the  human  heart.  Standing  in  the  window 
there,  the  eye  rests  upon  a  landscape  full  of  interest,  a 
scene  never  to  be  forgotten,  and  the  soul  is  refreshed 
with  the  vision  of  beauty. 

But  we  must  awav  to  other  parts  of  this  interesting 
town.  Once  in  a  while  a  Punch-and-Judy  show  qomes 
and  exhibits  near  the  town-hall.  There  is  then  much 
excitement — even  greater  than  that  caused  by  the 
monthly  visit  of  the  "  scissor-grinder."  The  latter  fairly 
rivals  the  travelling  tinker,  who  does  a  fair  trade  for  two 


174     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

reasons — first,  because  of  his  handiness  at  mending  old 
pots  and  kettles;  and  secondly,  being  a  gypsy,  he  is  sus- 
pected of  a  capability  of  stealing  fowl  by  way  of  revenge 
for  not  having  work  given  him.  If  he  cannot  have 
bread  honestly —  Well,  that  is  what  some  think.  The 
children  are  half  afraid  of  him  because  gypsies  have  been 
known  to  steal  boys  and  girls  and  make  acrobats, 
and  sometimes  aristocrats,  out  of.  them.  As  to  the 
grinder  of  scissors,  he  is  commonly  supposed  to  live 
somewhere  in  the  neighborhood,  though  where  nobody 
knows.  He  is  even  suspected  of  being  an  itinerant 
preacher,  but  the  weight  of  opinion  is  rather  in  favor  of 
regarding  him  as  a  pretty  straightforward  sort  of  man. 
He  is  quiet,  low  in  his  charges,  sober  and  respectful. 
For  a  penny  he  will  sharpen  all  the  cutlery  of  a  small 
establishment.  He  also  mends  umbrellas  and  sells  paper 
windmills.  When  he  comes  wheeling  his  little  machine 
down  the  street,  boys  run  after  him  with  their  pocket- 
knives  and  women  with  their  scissors,  and  as  the  sparks 
fly  from  the  tiny  grindstone  everybody  looks  on  with 
profoundest  interest.  But  he  shines  only  in  the  absence 
of  the  sun.  The  luminary  of  luminaries  is  the  puppet- 
show  man.  Here  in  this  open  space  in  front  of  the 
White  Hart — one  of  the  best  inns,  by  the  way,  in  the 
country — he  goes  through  the  tragedy  of  Punchinello. 
Between  the  acts  he  performs  on  a  primitive  musical  in- 
strument consisting  of  a  row  of  small  pipes  fastened  in 
the  front  of  his  coat.  This  "  wind-organ,"  being  level 
with  his  mouth  so  that  he  can  use  it  at  his  convenience, 
and  if  need  be  beat  a  drum  at  the  same  time,  produces 
music  similar  to  that  which  is  obtained  by  blowing  over 
the  open  end  of  a  key.  Occasionally  he  uses  a  jewsharp; 


A    TOWN  IN  THE   CHILTERNS.  175 

sometimes,  a  cornet ;  less  frequently,  a  violin.  If  he  has 
any  artistic  vanity,  it  is  helped  by  the  lusty  cheers  of  the 
crowd ;  his  pocket  is  filled  with  their  pence.  Only  let 
Punch  kill  the  devil,  and  every  man  in  the  company  will 
give  the  "  price  of  a  pint." 

You  see  in  the  cottage  doorway  the  housewife  trun- 
dling the  mop.  It  is  skilfully  done ;  so  is  the  way  in 
which  she  balances  herself  on  her  pattens.  The  cleaner 
she  keeps  her  stone  floor,  the  higher  her  respectability. 
That  is  one  of  the  aims  of  her  life.  She  has  two  others 
— viz.,  to  bring  up  her  children  as  she  thinks  they  ought 
to  be  brought  up,  and  to  grow  the  finest  flowers  possi- 
ble. Compare  the  little  fellow  sitting  on  the  upturned 
bucket  by  the  door-scraper,  munching  a  slice  of  bread 
covered  with  treacle,  with  the  fuchsias  and  geraniums  in 
the  window,  and  you  can  judge  of  her  success.  Speak 
to  her ;  yes,  sir,  independence  is  one  of  the  characteris- 
tics of  the  English  peasantry.  She  will  answer  you  with 
respect,  but  not  with  servility.  You  may  be  richer  and 
know  more :  that  she  will  admit ;  but  you  are  no  better 
than  she.  Praise  the  boy  or  the  flowers,  and  you  will 
see  the  healthy  blush  on  her  cheek  deepen  with  delight. 

The  curate  is  an  important  person  in  most  country 
parishes.  It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  he  does  all  the 
work — some  small  portion  of  it  is  undertaken  by  the 
rector — but  he  receives  most  of  the  popularity.  The 
people  always  regard  him  as  an  ill-used,  under-paid  and 
sadly- neglected  individual,  and  not  a  few  things  of  a 
severe  and  spiteful  nature  are  said  concerning  the  eccle- 
siastical superior  who  treats  him  so  badly.  The  young 
ladies  think  constantly  and  kindly  of  him,  especially  if 
he  be  single.  They  are  not  turned  aside  from  their  ad- 
12 


176  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

miration  for  him  by  anything  less  than  a  soldier,  and,  as 
a  fact,  the  moment  a  red  coat  comes  into  the  parish  the 
black  coat  is  forgotten.  However,  the  curate's  day 
comes  round  again.  He  is  there  all  the  time,  and  can 
play  croquet,  drink  tea,  quote  authors,  shape  compli- 
ments, make  sonnets,  explain  difficulties  and  do  all  sorts 
of  odd  things,  while  his  appearance  on  Sundays  in  a 
snow-white  surplice  with  the  hood  of  soft  rabbit-fur  lin- 
ing is  "just  too  lovely  for  anything."  To  say  that  he 
flirts  is  going  too  far,  but  he  succeeds  in  making  every 
girl  in  the  parish  think  her  chances  are  the  best.  In 
many  places  he  is  the  only  youth  a  girl  of  taste  and  edu- 
cation would  care  for ;  and  if  he  cannot  marry  all  the 
maidens  of  the  neighborhood,  it  is  not  his  fault.  As  a 
rule,  when  he  does  take  unto  himself  a  wife,  she  is  from 
another  parish,  and  then  his  resignation  speedily  follows. 
Unfortunately,  his  chances  of  promotion  are  not  invariably 
good.  If  poor  and  of  lowly  origin,  he  has  small  hope  of 
being  anything  else  than  a  curate.  Talents  except  of  the 
very  highest  and  rarest  order  go  for  little :  influence  is  every- 
thing. Many  of  the  ablest  workers  the  Church  of  England 
has  remain  curates  all  their  life,  and  many  of  the  most  in- 
efficient, useless,  parish-killing  clergy  have  rich  livings 
from  the  outset.  As  a  training  when  young  nothing  can 
be  better  than  a  position  under  an  able  and  sympathetic 
rector.  The  lack  of  responsibility  is  then  helpful,  and 
none  can  feel  that  more  than  the  man  who,  full  of  zeal  and 
life,  has  from  his  ordination  been  committed  to  the  care 
and  management  of  a  large  parish.  Young  men  can  then 
make  mistakes  without  doing  any  serious  damage.  Once 
upon  a  time  a  curate  was  called  to  solemnize  marriage 
for  the  first  time.  He  got  confused,  confounded,  and 


A    TOWN  IN  THE   CHILTERNS. 

opened  the  book  at  the  wrong  place.  He  did  not  under- 
stand why  the  people  smiled  when  he  began,  "  Hath  this 
child  been  already  baptized  or  no  ?"  The  clerk  put  him 
right ;  some  of  the  young  ladies  said  he  was  in  love  with 
the  bride.  It  was  the  more  provoking  because,  accord- 
ing to  his  own  confession  afterward,  he  had  gone  through 
the  service  the  night  before  with  the  clerk  and  the  rec- 
tor's cook — both  relics  in  the  seventies — as  subjects. — 
No ;  the  story  is  not  of  this  young  fellow  talking  to  the 
butcher  at  the  corner.  He  looks  as  though  he  could  as 
easily  take  first  oar  or  bowler  as  perform  the  most  diffi- 
cult ecclesiastical  function.  I  fancy  he  would  keep  cool 
even  if  he  had  to  baptize  a  child,  as  was  once  certainly 
done,  by  the  name  of  "  Anna  Miranda  Morea  Maria 
McRunnaho  Donahue  Bridget  Dashiell." — But  why 
speak  of  curates?  Because  Watlington  needs  some- 
thing to  keep  it  alive,  and  I  know  of  nothing  better  than 
a  curate.  He  could  at  least  teach  the  people  that  when 
in  mourning  they  are  not  obliged  to  drink  black  tea. 

Crooked  streets,  old  houses,  shops  with  tiny  windows 
and  with  bow-windows,  residences  hid  away  behind  high 
walls  and  seen  only  through  great  iron  gates,  walls  built 
of  flint  with  brick  facings  and  broken  glass  bottles  along 
the  top,  cobblestones  and  pebbles  under  foot,  antique 
taverns,  a  gentle,  drowsy,  restful,  self-satisfied  life, — 
that  is  Watlington.  The  waves  of  Time's  sea,  great 
and  mighty  as  they  roll  in  this  our  present,  break  and 
exhaust  their  strength  on  shores  far  away.  Only  a  few 
spatterings  of  spray  driven  by  the  wind  reach  this 
place — just  enough  to  let  its  people  know  that  some- 
thing great  and  ancient  has  been  washed  away,  some 
mighty  change  effected. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 


"  And  I  liked  their  yew-cut  alleys, 
Framing  vistas  of  the  valleys, 

And  the  church-tower  and  the  lea, 
And  the  stately  trees  whose  shadow 
Fell  at  eve  o'er  park  and  meadow 

Century  after  century." 

A  WARM  morning.  The  hills  lie  quivering  in  the 
haze  of  the  almost  cloudless  horizon,  and  three  hours 
before  noon  the  cattle  in  the  fields  seek  the  shadow  of 
the  beeches  and  the  traveller  moves  slowly  under  the 
overspreading  elms  by  the  roadside.  In  the  little  town 
of  Watlington  the  streets  are  mostly  deserted;  a  few 
women  are  marketing  at  the  butchers'  stalls  or  the 
grocers'  shops,  and  here  and  there  a  schoolboy  drags 
his  weary  way  to  the  place  of  flies,  rods  and  Latin 
declensions.  By  the  old  market-hall  stands  a  wagon  ; 
the  busy  chickens  pick  up  the  crumbs  which  fall  from 
the  horse's  feed-bag.  Up  the  road  toward  the  White 
Mark  a  team  is  moving  slowly  ;  the  dog  paces  gently 
on,  too  lazy  to  run  after  the  pigeons,  and  the  driver  is 
lying  on  his  back,  half  asleep,  on  the  top  of  the  load. 
Everything  indicates  a  hot,  quiet  day  —  one  of  those 
days  when  the  wind  is  warmer  than  the  still  air.  For- 
tunately, the  roads  are  not  dusty  enough  to  make  walk- 
ing unpleasant. 

178 


THAME.  179 

Two  of  us  set  out  in  the  road  running  at  the  foot  of 
the  Chilterns — that  is  to  say,  the  turnpike-road,  for  there 
is  another  parallel  with  this,  higher  up,  grass-grown  and 
unfrequented.  The  lovers  of  romance  and  of  solitude 
may  find  their  hearts'  delight  amid  chalk-pits  and 
sheep-walks,  on  mossy  knolls  and  under  gnarled  and 
twisted  hawthorn-bushes.  Bacon  Hill,  bare  of  trees, 
but  bristling  with  furze,  and  the  Cuckoo  Pen,  with  its 
noble  copses  on  brow  and  side,  are  on  the  right,  Chin- 
nor  and  Stokenchurch  farther  on,  and  Shirbourne  and 
Lewknor,  already  mentioned,  in  the  way.  At  the  cross 
of  the  Stokenchurch  road — one  of  the  great  highways 
to  London — is  the  "  Lambert  Arms."  This  was  once 
a  busy,  well-frequented  inn,  a  hostelry  flourishing  and 
famous  in  the  days  of  yore;  now  it  is  decayed  and 
deserted  and  has  been  turned  into  a  "  temperance  hotel." 
It  is  sad  to  look  at  the  old  house  with  its  faded  sign  and 
dim-paned  windows  and  recall  the  times  when  coaches 
and  postboys  gave  to  it  life  and  wealth.  Horses  were 
changed  here ;  belated  travellers  found  a  warm  welcome 
and  a  hearty  hospitality ;  when  the  wild  wintry  winds 
swept  across  the  country-side  and  deep  snows  lay  on 
the  ground,  the  open  blazing  hearth  became  a  refuge 
worthy  of  a  king ;  and  mine  host  held  that  nowhere 
else  on  the  highway  could  hungry  guest  find  better 
cheer  or  thirsty  soul  purer  and  stronger  ale.  Tradi- 
tions run  of  poaching  hereabouts,  and  this  lone  house 
near  to  the  estates  of  gamekeeping  squires,  with  easy 
means  of  getting  rid  of  stray  pheasants  and  partridges, 
favors  the  idea.  No  doubt  Sam,  the  hostler,  knew  how 
to  snare  a  hare,  and  also  knew  where  to  hide  it  under 
the  straw. 


180  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  any  highwaymen  in  these 
parts  ?"  I  ask  of  my  companion. 

"  They  were  common,"  he  replies,  "  in  years  long  ago, 
and  some  have  said  that  Dick  Turpin  relieved  two  or 
three  wealthy  men  of  their  purses  near  to  the  woods  at 
the  foot  of  the  hills  yonder ;  but  I  doubt  if  Dick  Tur- 
pin was  ever  in  this  country." 

So  do  I,  but  the  road  is  lonely  enough  now,  not  a 
cart,  horse^hor  man  to  be  seen.  How  exciting  when 
the  coach,  mud-splashed  and  creaking,  came  up  to  the 
inn  with  its  story  of  robbery !  Away  ride  horsemen  to 
raise  the  hue  and  cry  and,  if  possible,  to  find  the  thieves. 
The  roads  are  bad,  heavy,  full  of  ruts  and  holes  in  which 
the  horses  stumble  and  send  the  yellow  water  in  all  di- 
rections, and  before  anything  can  be  done  night  sets  in 
and  the  difficulties  become  insurmountable.  Then  the 
searchers  come  back  again  for  supper  and  for  the  moon 
to  rise,  the  parish  constable  from  Lewknor  in  the  mean 
time  having  arrived  on  the  scene  to  assume  official 
charge  of  the  proceedings.  As  his  qualification  for  office 
consists  in  his  being  full  of  years  and  of  rheumatism, 
he  does  very  little  beyond  ascertaining  the  facts  of  the 
case  and  pronouncing  judgment  thereon.  He  is  looked 
upon  as  an  oracle  by  all  who  know  him ;  no  pagan  ever 
listened  more  reverently  to  the  augury  of  his  priest  than 
the  men  and  the  boys  around  these  parts  did  to  the  ut- 
terances of  the  crooked  and  aged  Dogberry.  Once  a 
rotund  and  rubicund  coachman  strange  to  the  road 
and  some  distance  gone  in  his  cups,  and  therefore 
scarcely  responsible,  declared  him  to  be  an  old  woman ; 
but  some  standers-by  promptly  beat  him  into  grief,  and 
would  have  beaten  him  into  jelly  had  he  not  acknow- 


THAME.  l8l 

ledged  his  mistake.  No  more  was  said  on  that  occa- 
sion, and  we  can  imagine  no  more  was  done  on  this ; 
and  both  constable  and  highwaymen  remained  com- 
paratively unmolested. 

Farther  on  is  Kingston,  an  old-fashioned  village  with 
quaint  straw-thatched  cottages.  There  life  peacefully 
slumbers,  and  the  advent  of  a  stranger  in  the  quiet  lane- 
like  streets  sets  gossip  and  conjecture  agog  for  a  week. 
The  blacksmith  was  standing,  with  arms  fol  -led,  in  the 
doorway  of  his  shop  talking  to  a  woman  picking  cur- 
rants in  a  garden  across  the  way.  They,  a  cow  tethered 
by  the  roadside  and  some  birds  flitting  from  hedge  to 
hedge  were  the  only  signs  of  a  busy  world ;  all  else  was 
still.  Once  a  lark  sang  his  rich  sky-song  in  the  clear 
sunlight,  but  the  melody  melted  away  in  the  heat,  and 
the  echoes  seemed  to  fall  wearily  to  the  ground.  Beside 
the  way  were  many  noble  oaks  and  some  remarkably 
fine  clumps  of  giant  beech  trees.  Wild  flowers  in  abun- 
dance grew  in  the  thick  hedges  and  meadow-grass ; 
roses  of  almost  every  hue  vied  with  hollyhocks  and 
dahlias  to  beautify  the  cottage  gardens.  At  times  the 
fragrance  of  the  bean-blossom  was  stiflingly  sweet  and 
by  its  all-pervading  strength  suggested  hounds  thrown 
off  their  scent. 

A  pleasant  walk  of  a  mile  across  the  fields  brought  us 
to  Aston.  Here  we  visited  the  parish  church.  It  is 
built,  as  are  most  of  the  churches  of  this  neighborhood, 
of  flint  with  stone  ashlar  facings,  and  has  lately  been  re- 
stored. The  exterior  is  not  promising,  a  sundial  dated 
1772  alone  attracting  attention.  The  parish  clerk,  an 
old  man  nearly  ninety — so  he  told  us — kindly  unlocked 
the  door  and  showed  us  around  the  inside  of  the  build- 


1 82      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

ing ;  a  holy-water  stoup  at  the  door  indicated  its  pre- 
Reformation  origin.  There  is  a  number  of  tombs  and 
mural  tablets.  Set  in  the  wall  in  the  north  transept  is 
an  interesting  monument  to  the  memory  of  Lady  Cicil 
Hobbee,  who  died  in  1618.  It  is  the  figure  of  a  lady, 
dressed  in  ruff  and  black  robe,  kneeling  with  clasped 
hands  before  a  lectern  on  which  lies  an  open  book.  On 
the  top  of  the  sculpture-work  is  an  hourglass.  In  the 
opposite  transept  is  a  mural  tablet,  in  Latin,  of  about  the 
same  date.  In  the  aisles  and  the  nave  are  vaults  covered 
with  inscribed  stones  to  the  memory  of  local  celebrities, 
principally  Coles  and  Thornhills ;  they  are  also  of  the 
early  part  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Going  up  into 
the  chancel,  one  steps  upon  an  old  stone  in  which  a  life- 
sized  figure  is  deeply  cut.  The  lettering  around  the 
outer  edge  is  difficult  to  read,  but  I  believe  it  is  in  Nor- 
man French ;  if  so,  the  tomb  is  of  early  Plantagenet 
date.  Another  stone  tomb,  partly  within  a  low  orna- 
mented recess  on  the  north  side  of  the  chancel,  is  also 
interesting.  It  must  be  of  great  age,  but  some  worn 
carved  work  on  the  top  alone  remains.  I  could  not 
ascertain  anything  of  its  history ;  only,  a  bench  for  the 
choir  now  hides  it  from  the  general  view.  Down  in  the 
nave  are  two  small  brasses  almost  obliterated,  but  still 
displaying  a  man  and  a  woman  in  long  robes  and  with 
hands  clasped  in  the  attitude  of  prayer.  There  are  sev- 
eral modern  tablets  on  the  walls  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
church,  and  under  the  belfry  are  plainly-painted  tables 
of  the  benefactors  of  the  parish  and  the  nature,  value  and 
object  of  their  benefactions.  The  old  font  remains.  The 
ancient  figures  in  the  clerestory  are  characteristic;  they 
severally  express  Age,  Youth,  Sorrow  and  Mirth — typ- 


THAME.  183 

ical  of  the  worshippers  upon  whom  they  look.  On  the 
altar  are  candles  and  cross.  In  the  yard  rank  grass 
hides  many  of  the  graves,  and  thick  ivy  the  headstones 
An  inscription,  of  1826,  runs: 

"  Weep  not,  my  Wife  and  Children  dear, 
I  am  not  dead,  but  sleeping  here ; 
My  debt  is  paid,  my  grave  you  see : 
Wait  but  awhile,  and  you  will  follow  me. 
A  sincere  Friend,  a  Husband  dear, 
A  tender  Parent,  lieth  here." 

Possibly  neither  wife  nor  children  would  feel  much 
cheered  by  the  fact  that  they  would  follow  him ;  at  any 
rate,  there  is  something  uncomfortable  in  the  dead  man's 
saying  such  things.  That  fourth  line  is  very  mean,  con- 
temptible and  unworthy  of  a  good-natured  ghost. 

Leaving  this  quiet  and  sacred  spot,  we  had  a  delight- 
ful walk  of  about  two  miles  across  the  fields  to  the 
"  Barley-Mow,"  near  Sydenham.  This  is  the  best  way 
of  seeing  rural  England.  It  is  possible  to  walk  from 
one  end  of  the  country  to  the  other  by  footpaths,  and 
the  reward  for  doing  so  is  very  great.  The  haymakers 
were  busy  in  the  meadows  through  which  we  passed ; 
in  some  fields  sheep  were  grazing  and  cows  meditatively 
chewing  the  cud;  birds  were  singing,  hedges  blooming, 
and  by  the  side  of  the  tiny  brook  the  brightly-tinted 
kingfisher  darted  from  willow  to  brier  and  tall  reeds  and 
brilliant  red  poppies  swayed  gently  in  the  warm  wind. 
It  was  amusing  to  watch  the  stately,  ludicrous  walk  of 
the  rooks  across  the  grass ;  as  they  carefully  raise  each 
foot,  and  give  their  body  a  slight  and  consequential  tilt 
in  doing  so,  they  look  absurdly  grave  and  make  one 
think  of  dignified  black-robed  monks,  fat  and  full,  ten- 


1 84     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

derly  picking  their  way  barefooted  through  thistles  or 
fallen  holly-leaves.  Some  of  the  meadows  were  trav- 
ersed with  trenches,  and  in  the  springtime  or  during 
drought  the  whole  land  is  lightly  flooded :  an  abundant 
hay-crop  is  the  result.  At  the  Barley-Mow  the  ancient- 
looking  landlady  gave  us  some  very  poor  ginger  ale  and 
enlivened  us  with  a  few  reminiscences  of  her  sleepy  road- 
side inn.  The  tap-room  is  quaint,  with  high,  worn  set- 
tles and  well-cut  deal  tables ;  an  old-fashioned  fireplace 
with  mantel-piece  near  the  low,  smoke-hued  ceiling ;  the 
walls  covered  with  prints  of  prize  pigs  and  racehorses  and 
some  bills  of  agricultural  fairs.  The  hostess  wore  a  dress 
which  had  seen  better  days — possibly  when  she  was  a 
gay  maiden,  forty  years  since ;  its  color,  that  of  an  aged 
crow,  dusky,  mingled  russet  and  gray,  and  its  shape 
such  as  a  novice  had  devised  and  constant,  if  not  ju- 
dicious, patching  had  perfected.  Her  whitened  tresses 
were  caught  in  the  strings  of  an  old  black  cap ;  a  yellow 
collar  with  a  bit  of  violet  ribbon  adorned  her  neck,  and 
her  feet  were  not  like  those  pretty  mice  of  which  a 
golden  ballad  sings.  In  the  autumn  and  winter  even- 
ings a  goodly  company  of  villagers  tests  the  warmth  of 
her  hearth  and  the  strength  of  her  ale.  Then  Dick  the 
ratter  tells  his  stories  of  ferrets  and  weasels,  at  which 
Tim  and  Jack  open  their  mouths  wider  and  wider  as  the 
interest  becomes  deeper  and  deeper,  and  others  tap  their 
empty  mugs  approvingly  on  the  table.  A  song  with  a 
rousing  chorus,  repeated  over  again  and  again,  brings 
under  the  window  the  policeman,  who  devoutly  wishes 
he  could  join  the  merry  throng  and  discreetly  takes 
himself  off  about  the  time  of  closing  up.  At  fair-time 
and  on  market-days,  when  people  pass  more  frequently 


TEA  ME.  185 

along  the  highway,  many  stop  here  and  refresh  them- 
selves with  pure  home-brewed  or  genuine  Dublin  stout 
from  the  local  maltster.  Close  by  is  a  large  house,  un- 
occupied ;  a  woman  hanged  herself  there,  and  her  ghost 
now  haunts  the  place.  Our  landlady  had  not  seen  the 
apparition  herself,  but,  as  she  put  it,  "  there  be  such 
things,  you  know,  and  lots  of  folks  hereabouts  have  seen 
her."  The  horseshoe  over  the  door  sufficiently  pro- 
tected her  from  witches  and  the  like — though,  to  be 
sure,  she  had  once  been  frightened  out  of  her  wits  by  a 
travelling  fellow  with  an  electrical  machine,  and  went 
to  church  three  or  four  Sundays  running  afterward. 
He  showed  her  little  fellows  dancing  under  a  glass  and 
several  strange,  unearthly  tricks,  and  finished  by  getting 
her  to  touch  a  tiny  handle  at  the  end  of  a  wire.  If  she 
ever  came  near  seeing  stars  and  spirits,  it  was  then.  She 
jumped  and  screamed;  then  she  bundled  him  out  of  the 
front  door  and  knelt  down  and  said  the  Lord's  Prayer 
three  times,  had  a  strong  cup  of  tea,  scrubbed  out  the 
tap-room,  and  thought  more  seriously  of  higher  and  bet- 
ter things.  The  man  had  a  wife — a  neat,  trim  sort  of  a 
woman — and  she  came  afterward  to  get  the  carpet-bag 
which  he  had  left  in  his  hurry. 

"  I  urged  her  to  leave  such  a  wicked  man,"  said  the 
landlady,  "  for  he  was  an  imp  of  Satan  and  would  do  her 
no  good ;  but  the  blinded  thing  told  me  he  was  an  ex- 
perimenter after  somebody's  heart  and  he  had  never 
spoken  an  unkind  word  to  her.  Oh,  the  devil  snares 
some  folks  ! — Now,  do  take  another  glass ;  you  will  need 
it  this  hot  day.  No  ? — Well,  she  told  me  she  was  once 
a  servant-girl  in  some  outlandish  place  where  they  have 
fish  pies — down  Cornwall,  I  believe — and  he  was  a  me- 


1 86  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

chanic  with  an  idea,  a  real,  good  fellow,  poor,  and  there- 
fore obliged  to  travel  for  a  living,  but  kind  as  the  sun 
itself  and  bound  to  get  out  his  idea.  What  the  idea  was 
I  don't  know ;  it  had  something  to  do  with  telegraph- 
wires.  He  went  exhibiting  his  machine  in  gentlefolks' 
houses,  and  turned  over  many  a  honest  penny.  But  I 
was  scared,  and  I  thought  it  best  to  keep  to  my  tea  and 
say  my  prayers  for  some  time.  Sevenpence,  sir.  Thank 
you.  That  is  one,  two,  three,  four,  five — one  shilling. 
Call  again.  Wish  you  a  pleasant  walk,  but  the  weather 
is  enough  to  roast  a  duck  with  the  feathers  on." 

We  passed  through  Sydenham,  another  quiet,  trim 
village,  with  a  modern  church.  There  is  evidently  no 
right  of  way  through  the  yard,  for  the  gate  was  locked. 
Possibly  there  was  nothing  to  see  there,  or  the  people 
are  not  to  be  trusted  with  free  access  to  the  graves  of 
their  dead  or  the  house  of  their  God.  Another  walk 
across  the  fields  by  shady  hedgerows  brought  us  to  the 
road  running  from  Towersey  to  Thame,  and  in  a  little 
while  we  reached  the  old  familiar  town.  There  was  the 
railway  bridge  just  as  it  was  built  some  twenty  years 
ago;  there,  the  school- buildings  in  Park  street,  musty 
with  age,  decay,  old  books  and  pleasant  and  unpleasant 
reminiscences. 

About  thirteen  miles  from  Oxford  and  forty-four  from 
London  is  this  ancient  and  interesting  town.  It  is  near 
the  eastern  edge  of  the  county  of  Oxon,  and  its  northern 
end  begins  on  the  banks  of  a  brook  bearing  the  same 
name  as  itself.  At  this  end  is  Old  Thame,  and  from 
that  the  town  has  grown  almost  entirely  along  the  main 
highway;  so  that  it  principally  consists  of  one  long 
built-up  street  toward  the  south,  with  a  few  smaller  ones 


THAME.  IS/ 

and  some  lanes  branching  off  a  little  way  on  the  eastern 
side.  The  two  sides  of  this  street  are  bent  outward  like 
a  long-bow,  gradually  widening  for  about  half  a  mile, 
and  then  as  gradually  narrowing  in  for  another  half 
mile.  In  the  widest  place  an  irregular  pile  of  buildings, 
consisting  of  shops  and  the  town-  or  market-hall,  has 
been  erected.  Not  far  to  the  south  of  this  brick  island 
in  the  street  is  the  house  where  John  Hampden  died. 
The  extension  has  been  longitudinal ;  the  growth,  slow. 
The  railway-station  is  at  the  extreme  south,  about  a  mile 
and  a  half  from  the  ancient  parts  near  the  river,  and, 
though  thereabouts  the  buildings  are  mostly  new  and  the 
town  has  suffered  further  elongation  in  its  attempts  to 
embrace — or,  at  least,  to  touch — the  vein  of  steel  which 
connects  it  with  the  world's  great  arteries  of  trade  and 
commerce,  there  is  no  remarkable  increase  of  material 
prosperity  or  of  city-like  bustle.  Life  flows  on  in  its 
calm,  peaceful  way ;  the  streets  are  clean  and  still ;  the 
houses  and  the  gardens  seem  to  sleep  in  their  quiet,  an- 
tique dignity ;  the  people  move  leisurely  about,  sipping 
the  honey  from  the  flowers  of  business  or  of  gossip  and 
wisely  taking  their  time,  for  they  can  live  but  once ;  and 
all  who  go  there  soon  feel  that  they  have  been  happily 
left  behind  by  the  rush  of  time's  waters,  if  not,  indeed, 
carried  by  a  reflex  tide  a  long  way  back  into  the  ages  of 
the  past.  If  happiness  is  to  be  found  in  repose  and  con- 
tentment in  inactivity,  then  the  three  thousand  souls  who 
dwell  in  this  place  ought  to  set  an  example  to  the  world ; 
and  doubtless  they  would  do  s;o  in  a  manner  both  be- 
coming and  worthy  if  the  world  would  but  open  its  eyes 
and  see  .them.  But,  alas !  like  the  traditional  gems  or 
flowers  which  pass  their  days  unseen  in  ocean  depths  or 


1 88  THE  HEART  OF  M ERR  IE  ENGLAND. 

bosky  dells,  the  town  which  is  so  dear,  and  so  justly 
dear,  to  its  own  inhabitants,  is  unknown  to  fame  and 
almost  to  the  maps ;  and  when  some  stranger  afar  off 
chances  to  hear  of  it,  and  further  and  more  wonderfully 
chances  to  look  it  up  in  a  gazetteer,  he  passes  it  over 
with  a  sort  of  contemptuous  sigh :  "  Umph !  An  old 
out-of-the-world,  dead-and-alive  place."  And  that,  gen- 
tle reader,  may  be  your  sentence,  though,  if  you  be  gen- 
tle in  the  truest  sense  of  that  term  and  will  have  patience 
to  follow  me  along,  you  may  end  in  agreeing  with  me 
that  there  is  much  that  is  delightful  and  lovely  in  that 
same  old  time-stranded  town. 

Let  us  first  look  at  the  church.  This  is  a  noble  and 
historic  edifice,  many  parts  of  it  of  great  age,  cruciform, 
with  a  mighty  tower  rising  minster-style  from  the  inter- 
stice of  the  cross.  It  stands  on  a  slight  elevation  a  few 
hundred  yards  from  the  slowly-flowing  Thame,  with 
the  vicarage  a  little  nearer  the  river  and  the  remains  of 
the  old  prebendal  house,  now  a  private  residence,  a  short 
distance  farther  along  the  stream.  Around  the  sacred 
structure  is  the  graveyard,  filled,  contrary  to  the  usual 
custom,  with  tombs  and  mounds  on  every  side.  As  a 
rule,  none  who  died  in  the  peace  of  the  Church  were 
buried  in  the  northern  part  of  the  yard ;  that  was  the 
region  where  the  sun  never  shone  and  the  bleak 
winds  of  winter  swept  over  unhallowed  graves.  In  the 
brightsome  east  and  the  sunny  south  lay  the  dead  who 
slept  the  peace  of  paradise,  and  there  in  the  early  spring 
and  through  the  long  summer  and  into  the  late  autumn 
loving  hands  brought  offerings  of  flowers  and  loving 
hearts  uttered  the  prayer  that  God  would  give  even 
more  light  to  his  own  who  rest  in  him.  And  when 


THAME.  1 89 

the  snow  was  on  the  ground  and  the  Christmas  joy 
reigned  in  the  land,  then,  too,  fond  ones  remembered 
those  who  had  gone  before,  and  placed  a  wreath  of 
evergreen  holly  on  their  graves,  token  of  perpetual 
love,  and  dropped  the  rich  red  berries  on  the  white 
winter  ground,  spots  of  blood,  as  it  were,  even  like 
unto  the  stains  which  fell  from  Calvary.  No  doubt 
here  the  people  did  as  elsewhere,  for  in  the  old  time 
there  was  an  affectionate  and  ever-present  clinging  to 
those  who  had  passed  beyond  the  veil :  they  were 
never  forgotten ;  and  there  was  a  right  of  way  through 
the  churchyard,  so  that  at  any  time  the  living  might 
enter  God's  acre  and  offer  up  a  Paternoster  beside  the 
grave  of  their  heart's  treasure.  But  at  Thame — possi- 
bly because  of  the  buildings  toward  the  north — the 
general  rule  of  not  burying  in  that  part  does  not  obtain. 
The  dead  fill  up  the  available  space,  so  that  a  new  por- 
tion has  been  added  to  the  eastern  end.  I  know  other 
churchyards  where  the  north  is  used. 

The  main  approach  to  the  church  is  from  the  south 
side  through  a  lovely  avenue  of  lime  trees.  Such 
avenues  are  common  in  England,  and,  though  this  is 
not  so  glorious  as  some — say  that  at  Stratford-on-Avon 
— yet  it  has  stood  for  many  generations,  and  along  its 
noble  path  processions  have  moved  hither  and  thither, 
now  of  rejoicing  and  now  of  sorrow,  at  one  time  of  high 
ceremony  and  at  another  of  humble  town-worshippers. 
The  appearance  of  the  church  inside  is  of  mingled 
satisfaction  and  of  various  periods.  The  building  has 
escaped  .restoration,  so  the  old  pews  and  galleries,  the 
three-decker  pulpit  with  the  sounding-board  and  the 
tables  of  the  Ten  Commandments,  the  Creed  and  the 


190     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

Lord's  Prayer  over  the  altar,  remain.  With  the  un- 
sightliness  of  the  last  century  come  in  bits  of  late 
mediaeval  belongings.  Near  the  door  is  the  antique 
alms-box,  and  a  little  farther  in  the  old  font,  both 
probably  of  pre-Reformation  age.  There  are  no  crosses 
or  candles  in  the  building,  the  tendency  of  the  parish 
being  to  an  extreme  Protestantism,  nor  is  the  image  of 
St.  Thomas  of  Canterbury,  which  once  occupied  an 
honored  place,  to  be  seen.  Ancient  rood-screens  sep- 
arate the  nave  from  the  chancel  and  the  transepts  or 
chapels.  The  tombs  are  many  and  of  extreme  interest. 
In  the  centre  of  the  chancel  is  a  massive  and  exquisitely- 
carved  monument  to  Lord  and  Lady  Williams,  dated,  I 
think,  1559.  It  is  cut  in  marble  and  alabaster,  and  he 
and  she  lie  in  full-length  effigy,  their  feet  resting  against 
a  greyhound  and  a  horse  and  their  bodies  wearing  the 
costume  of  the  period.  The  whole  is  railed  in  and 
covered  with  a  dingy  red  curtain,  which  is  drawn  back 
for  the  benefit  of  visitors.  Lord  Williams  was  a  vigor- 
ous and  violent  mediaevalist,  and  had  no  sympathy  with 
the  reforms  which  had  taken  place  under  Henry  VIII. 
and  Edward.  He  took  a  prominent  part  in  the  sup- 
pression of  the  new  practices  and  was  a  leading  spirit 
in  the  martyrdom  of  the  prelates  at  Oxford.  No  doubt, 
when  he  saw  the  ashes  of  Latimer  and  of  Ridley,  he 
thought  the  end  of  their  work  was  also  near;  nor  may 
we  deem  him  and  others  who  did  as  he  aught  but  hon- 
est and  earnest  men — more  desirous,  indeed,  in  their 
conversation  and  love  to  defend  and  maintain  the  an- 
cient faith  and  customs  than  in  their  zeal  wantonly  to 
cause  reverend  prelates  and  tender  women  to  suffer  the 
pains  of  death.  But  the  irony  of  fate  is  written  across 


THAME.  191 

the  times.  Lord  Williams  rests  within  the  sanctuary 
where  once  he  heard  the  mass  sung  and  beheld  the 
glories  of  the  worship  he  loved,  but  over  his  tomb  an 
office  is  said  and  words  are  preached  which  he  de- 
nounced and  resisted.  A  bitter  opponent  of  Protest- 
antism rests  in  a  Protestant  place  of  worship ;  a  Prot- 
estant place  of  worship  shelters  in  its  most  sacred 
precinct  a  bitter  opponent  of  Protestantism.  The  sin- 
gular thing  about  the  tomb  is  that  the  feet  are  to- 
ward the  west.  I  can  find  no  reason  for  this  unique 
position,  and  conjecture  is  useless. 

Lord  Williams,  however,  was  not  wholly  occupied  in 
the  suppression  of  Protestantism.  His  was  an  active  and 
a  public  life — partly  that  of  a  courtier  and  partly  that  of 
a  country  gentleman — and  seems  to  have  been  graced 
with  the  virtues  of  generosity,  kindliness  of  spirit  and 
nobility  of  mind.  In  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  he  was 
keeper  of  the  king's  jewels,  and  also  one  of  the  com- 
missioners for  the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries,  pos- 
sibly visiting  the  abbeys  and  the  priories  of  Oxfordshire 
with  John  Tregonwell  in  the  autumn  of  1536.  By  his 
purchase,  in  1539,  of  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Quarter- 
mains,  at  Rycote,  his  position  and  authority  in  the 
county  were  increased,  and  in  1553,  when  Lady  Jane 
Grey  was  forced  by  her  ambitious  friends  to  receive  the 
crown,  he  gathered  some  seven  thousand  men  and  at 
Thame  and  elsewhere  boldly  proclaimed  Mary  to  be  the 
rightful  queen.  A  few  days  later  he  and  his  Oxfordshire 
men  accompanied  the  daughter  of  Catherine  of  Arragon 
in  her  triumphal  progress  into  London,  and  his  royal 
mistress  recognized  his  fidelity  by  making  him  a  peer 
of  the  realm.  It  was  to  him  that  Queen  Mary  entrusted 

13 


IQ2  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

the  princess  Elizabeth  when  she  sent  her  as  a  prisoner 
from  the  Tower  to  the  royal  bowers  of  Woodstock.  At 
that  time  the  life  of  the  future  Virgin  Queen  was  dark 
and  doubtful.  Only  by  the  barest  chance  did  she  escape 
execution  in  the  Tower;  and  when  the  tidings  came 
that  she  should  be  separated  from  her  servants  and  go 
to  Woodstock,  she  considered  herself  in  great  peril  and 
was  filled  with  mournful  dread.  But  Lord  Williams, 
while  he  fulfilled  his  trust  with  honesty  to  his  sov- 
ereign, showed  unusual  kindness  to  Elizabeth.  Possibly 
he  remembered  the  beautiful  and  witty  Anne  Boleyn, 
and  was  moved  to  pity  by  the  wrongs  and  sorrows  of 
the  comely  daughter  of  his  old  king.  When  asked 
if  treachery  were  purposed,  he  sturdily  exclaimed, 
"  Marry,  God  forbid  that  any  such  wickedness  should 
be  intended !  which  rather  than  it  should  be  wrought,  I 
and  my  men  will  die  at  her  feet."  When  in  their  prog- 
ress they  reached  his  house  at  Rycote,  he  gave  her  a 
princely  and  hospitable  entertainment,  treating  her,  in 
the  presence  of  a  noble  company  of  knights  and  ladies, 
with  the  honor  due  to  her  exalted  rank.  Free  was  the 
mirth  and  loud  was  the  song  that  night — May  22,  1554. 
The  lord  of  Rycote  had  converted  the  old  manor-house 
into  domestic  offices,  and  close  by  had  built  a  large  and 
glorious  mansion — verily,  a  palace.  In  hall  and  in 
kitchen  boundless  hospitality  was  displayed.  The 
drooping  spirits  of  the  princess  revived;  and  when 
some  one  warned  the  generous  host  of  the  possible  con- 
sequences of  his  thus  acting  toward  the  queen's  prison- 
er, he  warmly  replied  "  that,  let  what  would  befall,  Her 
Grace  might  and  should  be  merry  in  his  house." 
Nothing  remains  of  the  noble  house  at  Rycote;  the 


THAME.  193 

male  line  also  ceased  in  the  lord  lying  in  the  alabaster 
tomb ;  and  whether  the  zealous  and  loyal  man  at  the  last 
softened  toward  the  professors  of  the  new  faith  I  know 
not — only,  in  1559,  when  dying,  he  sent  for  the  godly 
John  Jewel,  lately  returned  from  exile,  to  visit  him. 

In  the  chancel  are  other  tombs — among  them,  partly 
let  into  a  recess  in  the  wall,  one  to  Sir  John  Clerke, 
dated  1539.  There  is  also  a  brass  to  Edward  Harriss, 
1597,  and  high  up,  hanging  from  the  wall,  is  the  helmet 
of  one  of  the  Clerkes,  with  vizor  and  all  complete. 
Visitors  are  told  it  is  the  one  which  Sir  John  Clerke 
wore  in  the  ancient  wars — an  indefinite  statement,  but 
perhaps  referring  to  the  Battle  of  the  Spurs.  In  the 
chapels  are  also  tombs  of  great  age  and  interest.  In 
that  on  the  north  side  is  one,  altar-shaped,  to  Sir 
John  Dormer.  On  the  top  is  a  brass  of  himself  and 
his  two  wives,  and  at  their  feet  are  brasses,  arranged 
in  three  groups — one  of  which  has  been  stolen — of  his 
twenty-five  children.  It  is  of  the  year  1502.  In  the 
south  are  even  greater  attractions.  In  one  corner,  high 
up  in  the  wall,  is  carved  a  full-length  figure  of  an 
ecclesiastic.  It  may  possibly  represent  a  bishop,  but 
whether  originally  built  in  the  wall  or  removed  from 
some  position  in  the  floor  I  do  not  know.  The  robes, 
the  features  and  the  hands  clasping  a  book  to  the  breast 
are  plain,  though  the  stone  is  much  worn  and  of  great 
age.  There  is  an  aumbry  underneath  it,  implying  the 
former  existence  of  an  altar  close  by.  Probably  the 
tomb  to  the  Quartermains,  dated  1400,  stands  upon  the 
site  of  this  altar,  if,  indeed,  the  tomb  may  not  have  been 
used  as  the  altar  itself.  The  figures  on  this  tomb  are  in 
good  preservation.  On  the  brass  around  the  edge  of  the 


194  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

marble  slab  may  be  read  the  piteous  appeal  to  the  visitor 
of  his  charity  to  say  a  Paternoster  for  the  repose  of  the 
souls  of  those  who  lie  beneath.  Near  by  is  a  similar 
tomb  to  the  Greys,  but  some  vandal  long  ago  stole  the 
best  part  of  the  brasses,  and  the  date  is  therefore  un- 
certain. 

As  one  looks  upon  these  monuments  of  men  who 
lived  their  life  centuries  since,  one  realizes  more  than 
ever  the  strangeness  of  time.  They  once  frequented 
this  sacred  building ;  they  were  the  great  men  of  the 
neighborhood — worthy,  let  us  hope,  of  the  distinction — 
and  to  their  dependants,  whose  names  are  forgotten  and 
whose  dust  has  long  since  mingled  with  common  earth, 
kind  and  forbearing.  With  hawk  on  their  fist  and  hound 
at  their  feet  or  clad  in  coat  of  mail  and  armed  with  sword 
and  lance,  they  came  to  worship  that  God  who  is  the 
Father  of  us  all.  List  to  the  lordly  walk  along  the 
echoing  aisle,  and  think  of  the  life  and  power,  the  proud 
authority  and  noble  dignity,  which  are  manifest  in  every 
step !  They  once  saw  these  same  walls,  rejoiced  in  this 
same  sun  and  felt  these  same  emotions ;  now  they  lie  in 
mouldering  dust,  and  the  immortality  in  sculptured 
tomb  and  charitable  bequest  which  they  had  fondly 
hoped  would  have  been  theirs  is  fast  passing  away.  The 
idle  tourist  reads  their  names,  the  greedy  poor  receive 
their  doles,  but  without  interest  in  them,  and  even  the 
congregation  worshipping  beside  them  and  in  the  sanctu- 
ary which  some  of  them  may  have  helped  to  build  or  to 
beautify  forgets  them  in  its  prayers,  or,  if  it  chance  to 
think  of  them,  regards  a  petition  offered  up  to  God  on 
their  behalf  as  superstitious  and  vain.  Yet  once  masses 
were  offered  up  and  prayers  were  said  at  these  altar- 


THAME.  195 

tombs,  and,  rightly  or  wrongly,  people  sought  to  realize 
the  communion  of  saints  as  unbroken  by  death. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  in  old  time  epitaphs  rarely 
— possibly,  never — referred  to  the  moral  qualities  of  the 
deceased  in  any  but  a  deprecatory  way.  Generally 
speaking,  the  name  and  the  titles  only  are  given ;  some- 
times the  words  are  added,  "  miserable  sinner."  It  was 
left  to  the  last  century  to  indulge  in  rhapsodies  such  as 
the  following.  This  paragon  of  perfection,  by  name 
Robert  Crews,  died  in  January,  1731,  at  the  age  of  sixty 
years : 

"  He  was  an  Humble,  Obsequious  Son, 
A  Tender,  Affectionate  Brother, 
A  Peaceable,  Benevolent  Neighbour, 
He  kept  up  the  good  old  Hospitality, 
His  Liberal  Table  was  spread  to  ye  Hungry, 
His  purse  open  to  the  Necessitous, 
Generous  without  Affectation, 
Just  in  His  actions  and  Sincere  to  His  Friend, 
A  Pattern  of  Patience,  Humility, 
Charity,  Good  Nature  and  Peace." 

Look  up  into  the  lofty  clerestory  and  observe  the  well- 
preserved  and  admirably-carved  figures ;  the  sculptured 
stone  speaks  of  many  things.  In  the  nave  first  comes 
one  placed  over  the  pulpit,  as  if  looking  to  see  that  the 
people  are  giving  all  attention,  and  opposite  to  it  is  one 
with  hands  crossed  on  the  breast,  as  if  accepting  the 
truth  and  resigning  the  soul  to  it.  Then  come  a  crowned 
king  on  one  side  and  a  mitred  bishop  on  the  other ;  then 
an  angel  with  clasped  hands  in  prayer,  opposite  to  one 
with  open  hands  in  benediction ;  afterward  another  king 
and  bishop  as  before,  and  next  to  these  an  angel  playing 
a  harp,  and  on  the  other  side  an  angel  playing  with 


196  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

cymbals.  In  the  west-end  corners  are,  on  the  south 
side,  an  angel  holding  a  pen  in  hand,  as  though  to  re- 
cord the  shortcomings  of  the  congregation,  and  on  the 
north  side  another  angel,  pointing  to  an  open  book — 
perhaps  the  Book  in  which  is  written  the  way  of  life 
and  forgiveness.  In  the  south  aisles  are  also  heads, 
much  worn  and  some  almost  gone,  but  there  is  one  de- 
noting Mirth  and  another  Sorrow.  Doubtless  Age  and 
Youth,  Wisdom  and  Folly,  were  also  depicted.  Many 
of  these  figures  look  down  upon  the  worshippers,  and 
here  as  elsewhere  it  must  have  been  something,  in  an 
age  of  art  and  faith,  for  the  people  to  look  up  from  their 
devotions  and  behold  these  faces,  so  full  of  meaning  and 
expression.  Surely  they  were  unto  them  as  messengers 
from  the  King !  By  the  side  of  the  door,  in  the  old 
stone  porch,  are  also  heads,  now  barely  decipherable, 
but  no  doubt  once  full  of  the  expression  of  welcome  to 
the  incoming  worshippers.  There  are  also  some  at  the 
great  windows — angels  peeping  out  of  God's  blessed 
sanctuary  to  watch  over  the  loved  ones  who  sleep  in  the 
still  yard  outside.  Nor  is  the  interior  alone  in  this  re- 
spect. On  the  high  northern  wall  of  the  nave,  looking 
toward  the  north-west,  is  a  figure  in  splendid  preserva- 
tion. It  is  gazing  skyward  eagerly  and  expectantly, 
with  every  feature  of  the  face  marked  with  sweet  and 
longing  expression.  Possibly  it  may  denote  the  desire 
for  the  Divine  Presence  to  abide  with  the  brethren  who 
in  past  days  lived  in  the  religious  house  in  that  direc- 
tion, or,  as  possibly,  the  looking  for  the  procession 
wending  its  way  therefrom  to  the  holy  sanctuary.  As 
the  warm  rays  of  the  July  afternoon  sun  lighted  upon  it, 
it  seemed  in  its  grace  and  loveliness  to  breathe  forth 


THAME.  197 

a  benediction  over  churchyard,  tree-tops  and  river- 
meadow,  even  such  as  angels  breathe  when  from  the 
battlemented  walls  of  the  Golden  City  they  look  down 
upon  the  distant  plains  of  earth.  There  are  also  huge 
grotesque  faces — evil  spirits  fleeing  from  the  presence  of 
the  Lord,  utilized  by  the  old  builders  for  waterspouts, 
belching  out  of  their  gaping  mouths  the  floods  of  ill, 
and  in  two  or  three  instances  used  by  the  sparrows  in 
which  to  build  their  nests.  A  sundial  has  the  signif- 
icant word  "  Jerusalem  "  across  its  face. 

The  associations  of  the  place  sacred  both  by  time  and 
by  purpose  must  needs  be  many.  It  is  a  privilege  to 
walk  where  holy  feet  have  trod,  and  to  look  upon 
things  which  once  met  the  gaze  of  those  who  have  long 
since  been  with  God.  The  church  is  the  centre  of  a 
town's  history.  Here  generation  after  generation  met 
and  worshipped.  In  life  they  worked  together ;  in  death 
they  lie  side  by  side.  From  the  font  to  the  grave  each 
walked  the  same  path,  knew  the  other's  hopes  and 
sorrows,  had  a  common  interest  in  the  things  around 
him.  The  house  of  God  was  the  home  of  all,  and  rich 
and  poor  met  together  because  the  Lord  was  their 
Maker.  Before  the  church  porch  they  gathered  as  the 
bells  chimed  for  service  and  talked  over  the  events  of 
the  past  week ;  within,  they  listened  to  the  words  that 
should  make  them  wise  for  ever.  What  a  blank  in  the 
old  life  there  would  have  been  without  the  church,  itself 
the  symbol,  the  witness,  of  unity — the  shrine  to  which 
the  many  feet  wended  their  way !  Time  seems  nothing 
amid  such  surroundings ;  the  past  melts  into  the  present, 
the  mists  of  ages  lift,  and  the  eye  beholds  armored 
knights,  cowled  monks,  buskined  yeomen,  foresters, 


198  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

artisans,  laborers  and  men-at-arms  as  in  the  bygone 
days  they  thronged  these  consecrated  walls.  There  were 
old  men  and  women  bent  and  gray  with  years ;  stalwart, 
hearty  folk  of  middle  life ;  lovers  young  and  hopeful — 
my  brave  Harry  and  my  rosy-cheeked  Margery;  and 
boys  and  girls,  thoughtful,  mischievous,  playful,  good 
and  bad — just  as  we  see  them  now.  As  I  stand  before 
the  eastern  window  and  the  great  bell  in  the  tower  ut- 
ters its  slow  and  heavy  toll,  heralding  some  one  to  the 
grave  prepared  beyond  the  lime  trees,  I  think,  though 
dissimilar  in  outward  things,  yet  in  essentials  how  alike 
the  ages  are !  There  are  few  nobler  or  more  interesting 
buildings  than  that  old  church  of  Thame.  '. 

Under  the  southern  wall  is  the  tomb  of  a  good  and 
holy  man  who  some  years  since  was  vicar  of  this  parish. 
Ere  long  the  inscription  thereon  will  be  obliterated,  for 
in  this  English  atmosphere  stones  speedily  become  dark- 
ened and  lichen-covered,  and  the  new  appears  as  the 
old.  As  we  pass  from  the  church  down  the  narrow  lane 
which  leads  into  the  High  street  of  the  town  we  may  re- 
call the  kindly  clergyman  whose  memory  is  dear  to 
many  of  his  former  parishioners.  This  building  on  the 
left  hand  is  the  grammar-school.  It  was  founded  and 
the  house  built  in  the  year  1569,  and  might  have  been 
as  great  as  Eton  or  Harrow  had  the  Fates  been  in  its 
favor.  The  endowment  is  considerable,  and  a  quarter  of 
a  century  since  the  school  had  four  or  five  masters  and 
one  scholar.  Some  of  the  masters  were  very  good 
cricketers,  and,  as  the  mind  of  their  solitary  pupil  was 
like  unto  a  narrow-necked  bottle,  they  could  not  occupy 
their  time  in  forcing  into  him  the  wine  of  wisdom  or  the 
syrup  of  knowledge.  While  all,  therefore,  received  their 


THAME.  199 

allotted  stipends,  one  did  the  duty.  The  ecclesiastical 
commissioners  made  a  change  in  this  happy  state  of  af- 
fairs, and  now  many  of  the  townsmen  avail  themselves 
of  Lord  Williams's  foundation.  This  was  the  Lord  Wil- 
liams already  spoken  of,  and  it  is  not  unworthy  the  at- 
tention of  those  who  profit  by  his  beneficence  that  he  by 
no  means  approved  of  the  views  which  for  three  cen- 
turies have  been  taught  in  his  school.  His  money  has 
gone  to  make  men  after  the  pattern  of  those  whom  he 
helped  to  burn  at  Oxford.  Peace  to  his  soul,  that  is  his 
punishment.  And  the  good  vicar,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Prosser, 
whose  name  I  write  with  a  tender  reverence,  was  one 
who  through  a  long  and  faithful  ministry  stood  up  man- 
fully for  the  Protestant  character  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land. It  would  not  have  daunted  him  if  Lord  Williams 
had  come  out  of  his  marble  tomb  with  a  score  of  his 
men-at-arms  and  haled  him  to  prison ;  he  was  ready  to 
die  as  Cranmer  had  done.  Not  that  he  was  a  bitter  con- 
troversialist. He  sought  to  soften  men's  hearts  with  the " 
doctrines  of  Christ  rather  than  to  inflame  them  with  the 
passions  of  party.  It  was  more  by  his  gentle,  loving 
example,  his  kind  words  and  peaceful  counsels,  than  by 
violent  denunciations  or  pessimistic  utterances,  that  he 
won  souls.  Yes;  were  those  old  timbered  houses  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  there  would  be  a  sign 
giving  particulars  concerning  them.  He  visited  his 
people  and  discharged  his  duties  with  a  fidelity  akin  to 
that  of  Chaucer's  Poor  Parson,  and  among  those  in  para- 
dise are  doubtless  many  who  throughout  eternity  shall 
rise  up  and  call  him  blessed.  I  see  him  now,  with  his 
hand  on  a  little  curly-head,  teaching  the  boy  the  words, 
"  God  so  loved  the  world  that  he  gave  his  only  begotten 


200  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

Son."  When  the  text  is  learned,  the  lad  will  be  richer 
by  sixpence  and  will  have  a  lesson  to  remember  for  life. 
The  wants  and  the  cares  of  his  flock  were  his  own.  To 
the  troubled  he  gave  sympathy ;  to  the  needy,  alms.  It 
was  rumored  among  the  Baptists — who  were  of  a  kind 
known  as  Particular — that  he  believed  in  doctrines  of 
grace,  and  would  have  preached  them  only  he  was  afraid 
of  being  sent  to  prison  by  his  bishop.  Other  dissenters 
in  the  town,  however,  used  to  say  he  had  too  much 
sense  to  believe  anything  of  the  sort,  and  the  only  fault 
they  had  with  him  was  that  he  preached  with  a  manu- 
script and  took  tithes.  The  tithes  were  as  small  as  the 
sermons  were  long,  so  that  his  income  was  not  to  be 
compared  with  his  outlay.  Dear  old  man !  in  the  sim- 
plicity and  goodness  of  his  heart  he  would  have  preached 
the  whole  of  the  longest  day  in  the  year  if  thereby  he 
could  have  saved  one  poor  child  out  of  heresy  and 
schism.  He  has  gone  to  his  rest,  and  the  church  is  as 
he  left  it,  and  it  will  be  some  time  yet  before  Lord  Wil- 
liams will  turn  over  in  his  tomb  to  the  Introibo  of  the 
Mass  or  to  the  majesty  of  the  Gregorian  tone. 

The  High  street  is  very  still  this  warm  day,  and,  in- 
deed, except  when  the  market  is  being  held,  it  is  seldom 
otherwise.  There  are  some  old  houses,  but  not  many 
of  great  age.  The  inns  look  respectable  and  clean,  and 
thrive  as  much  upon  village  visitors  as  upon  the  towns- 
people themselves.  The  best  hostel  in  the  place  has  the 
Transatlantic  cognomen  of  the  "  Spread  Eagle,"  but  the 
sign  looks  as  though  it  were  painted  some  time  before 
Christopher  of  famous  memory  turned  his  vessel's  prow 
toward  the  Western  strand.  They  who  desire  English 
cheer  good  and  solid,  native-grown  mutton  and  deep 


THXME.  201 

foaming  ale,  can  have  it  here.  The  mahogany  under- 
neath which  the  traveller  will  rest  his  weaned  legs  is 
massive  and  suggestive  of  club  dinners.  The  guests  all 
sit  down  to  the  one  table  and  eat  and  drink  in  silence ; 
John  likes  to  do  one  thing  at  a  time :  "  Shall  I  not  take 
mine  ease  in  mine  inn  ?"  An  hour  and  a  half  at  the 
Spread  Eagle  will  make  a  man  happy  as  a  king  and  su- 
premely indifferent  to  earthquakes,  taxes,  gnats,  news- 
papers and  policemen.  There  are  some  shops — grocers, 
drapers,  haberdashers,  stationers,  and  the  like — but  the 
front  door  rings  a  bell  when  it  is  opened,  so  as  to  bring 
the  elsewhere-occupied  shopman  to  the  counter.  This 
suggests  small  custom.  The  chapels  belong  to  some  of 
the  moderately-thriving  tradesmen,  who  attend  and  con- 
trol them  until  they  themselves  have  gained  a  higher  so- 
cial position,  and  then  they  go  to  the  parish  church. 

Up  an  intricate  back  lane  was  once  the  meeting-house 
of  the  Baptists — a  highly-respectable  folk,  but,  like  the 
conies,  feeble  and  abiding  in  retired  places.  It  was  not 
necessarily  choice  which  drove  dissenters  to  build  their 
chapels  in  such  out-of-sight  holes  and  corners,  but  the 
unfortunate  exigences  of  circumstances.  No  one  would 
imagine  there  was  any  such  place  up  this  long,  winding 
alley.  Before  an  adverse  force  could  get  to  the  trem- 
bling worshippers  warning  could  be  given  them,  and 
they  could  scatter  themselves  in  the  neighboring  gar- 
dens and  back  yards.  The  house  was  a  square  one, 
strongly  built,  with  its  roof  shaped  like  a  pyramid. 
Inside,  it  had  a  gallery  at  one  end  and  at  the  other  a 
pulpit  near  the  ceiling.  High  pews,  stiff  and  bare,  typi- 
cal of  the  stern  religious  convictions  of  the  congrega- 
tion, filled  the  building.  There  was  no  musical  instru- 


2O2  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

ment,  not  even  a  tuning-fork,  and  the  hymns — very  long 
and  very  tedious — were  given  out  and  sung  two  lines  at 
a  time.  An  old  farmer  fervent  in  piety  and  simple  in 
taste  for  many  years  ministered  to  the  flock.  He  needed 
no  paper  and  no  preparation  for  his  sermons  :  all  he  did 
was  to  stand  the  big  Bible  up  on  its  back  and  let  it  fall 
open  at  any  place  by  chance ;  then  the  first  passage  his 
eye  lighted  on  became  his  text,  and  he  went  on  for  up- 
ward of  an  hour  and  a  quarter.  Frequently  he  spoke  to 
edification ;  and  when  he  had  exhausted  the  wiles  of  the 
devil  and  the  wickedness  of  the  world,  he  had  always 
the  enormities  of  the  Church  of  England  to  fall  back 
upon.  It  is  probable  that  he  thanked  God  every  day  of 
his  life  that  Providence  had  created  the  Church  for 
his  special  benefit.  Certainly,  had  it  not  existed  he 
would  have  been  without  a  subject  two-thirds  of  his 
time — unless,  to  be  sure,  Satan  had  manifested  himself 
in  some  similar  ecclesiastical  form.  The  farmer-preacher 
was  popular  with  his  people.  The  only  time  their  affec- 
tion for  him  was  shaken  was  when  an  aged  sister  saw 
him  speaking  in  the  street  to  that  man  of  evil  .the  parish 
curate.  He  seemed  to  be  on  good  terms  with  him — a 
thing  bordering  dangerously  upon  the  unpardonable  sin 
and  not  to  be  endured  for  a  day.  But  when  the  anxious 
flock  knew  that  their  pastor  was  only  cross-examining 
the  curate  on  the  idolatrous  and  profane  doctrine  of  bap- 
tismal regeneration  with  a  view  to  exposing  and  refuting 
that  abominable  belief,  they  were  satisfied  and  compla- 
cently quoted  one  to  another,  "  Wise  as  serpents  !"  The 
trouble  which  seemed  to  weigh  most  with  the  good  old 
man  was  the  apparent  oblivion  in  which  the  vicar  sank 
him.  No  matter  how  much  he  spoke  against  the  Church, 


THAME.  203 

the  Church  went  on  as  though  he  were  not.  This  was 
provoking,  of  course,  for  there  is  little  satisfaction  in 
knocking  about  a  man  who  will  not  strike  back.  At 
last  the  congregation  decided  to  leave  the  house  where 
it  had  met  for  upward  of  a  century,  if  not  for  two  cen- 
turies, and  to  build  a  chapel  in  the  light  of  the  sun  and 
the  town.  It  stands  farther  up  the  main  street,  and  from 
the  day  it  was  first  occupied  to  this  the  members  have 
been  unhappy.  They  were  better  off  in  the  old  place. 
They  tried  to  bury  their  past ;  they  did,  indeed,  bury 
their  ancient  pastor,  and  they  have  grieved  over  the 
grave  and  quarrelled  over  the  will  ever  since, 

I  remember  attending  a  service  in  the  old  chapel  many 
years  ago.  It  was  in  May,  when  the  apple  trees  in  a 
garden  close  by,  seen  from  the  gallery,  were  in  bloom. 
The  building  was  filled  in  every  part ;  some,  indeed,  oc- 
cupied the  pulpit  with  the  preacher.  A  stranger  deliv- 
ered a  special  sermon,  but  the  occasion  I  have  forgotten. 
He  had  a  clear,  earnest  voice,  an  impassioned  delivery, 
and,  though  evidently  uncultured,  was  well  read  in  the 
Scriptures  and  in  the  Christian  experience.  It  was  late 
in  the  afternoon,  and  the  long,  low  sunlight  swept  across 
the  still  and  intensely  attracted  congregation,  a  strange, 
soft  weirdness  making  one  realize  mysterious  things. 
The  text  was  from  Habakkuk :  "  God  came  from  Teman, 
and  the  Holy  One  from  mount  Paran.  Selah.  His 
glory  covered  the  heavens,  and  the  earth  was  full  of  his 
praise."  The  Divine  Presence  was  not  only  described : 
it  was  felt.  As  the  preacher  went  on  with  graphic  force 
to  speak  of  the  glory  and  the  praise  the  people  were 
wrapped  in  silence  and  emotion.  There  was  no  stir,  no 
restlessness;  no  one  seemed  to  breathe.  The  shadows 


204  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

lengthened,  the  sunlight  died  away,  gloom  stole  over  the 
land,  but  the  people  listened  on  and  looked  upon  the 
streaming  glory  from  Teman  and  the  dazzling  radiance 
from  Paran.  Then  the  preacher  sat  down,  but  the  still- 
ness was  unbroken.  In  awe  and  wonder  people  waited 
in  the  gloaming,  as  if  expecting  to  see  the  darkness  pass 
away  and  God  appear.  The  spell  was  relieved  by  some 
one  beginning  the  "  Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings 
flow,"  and  instantly  the  large  assembly  rose  to  its  feet 
and  sang  aloud.  How  the  old  building  echoed  with  the 
sound  of  many  voices !  And  all  went  away  feeling  that 
for  once — perhaps  only  for  once  in  this  life — they  had 
seen  the  glories  of  the  land  beyond  the  silent  stars. 

Stand  with  me  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  shade  near  this 
pond  in  the  street,  and  before  we  take  ourselves  to  the 
station  let  me  present  to  you  two  or  three  more  of  the 
old  inhabitants  of  the  town. 

This  stout  ancient  gentleman  in  the  knee-breeches  and 
broad-brimmed  hat  standing  at  the  corner  of  East  street 
and  High  is  one  of  the  honored  and  honorable  members 
of  the  community.  He  is  a  Quaker,  and  through  his 
long  and  useful  life  has  been  both  an  ornament  to  his 
society  and  a  benefit  to  his  fellow-men.  The  only  weak- 
ness known  to  the  public  of  which  he  has  been  guilty  is 
writing  what  he  is  pleased  to  call  poetry ;  but  in  this  he 
is  not  singular.  A  neighbor  and  tenant  of  his,  a  sawyer 
by  trade  and  a  dog-fancier  by  way  of  amusement,  is  fond 
of  writing  obituary  and  satirical  lines.  Whenever  any 
one  of  consequence  in  the  neighborhood  dies,  or  when- 
ever the  zeal  of  the  Wesleyans — against  whom  he  has  a 
violent  antipathy — breaks  out  in  extraordinarily  volcan- 
ic-like  fervor,  good  John  Potter  leaves  his  log  which  he 


THAME.  205 

is  sawing  and,  accompanied  by  two  or  three  of  his  favor- 
ite dogs,  goes  to  the  "  Cross  Keys,"  there  at  the  corner, 
and  with  mine  host  Hewlett's  strong  ale  soon  reaches  a 
stage  of  spirituous  and  poetic  exhilaration.  A  few  hours 
later,  in  his  back  parlor,  redolent  with  divers  aromas — 
for  his  wife  makes  ginger  beer  and  takes  in  dyeing  and 
is  as  fond  of  cats  and  jackdaws  as  he  is  of  dogs — the 
worthy  disciple  of  the  Muses  may  be  found  driving  his 
quill,  scratching  his  head,  swearing  at  the  world  in  gen- 
eral and  at  the  partner  of  his  joys  in  particular,  sipping 
his  potion  of  porter  qualified  with  an  unknown  quantity 
of  Scotch  of  unknown  strength,  and  thus  evolving  slowly 
and  painfully  stanzas,  rhymes  and  fantasies  which  shall 
be  the  wonder  of  the  world  when  the  world  has  nothing 
else  to  do  but  read  them.  Fortunately,  a  policeman 
lodges  a  few  doors  away,  and  the  poet's  wife  and  that 
guardian  of  the  peace  take  John  off  to  bed  before  any 
serious  damage  is  done.  The  next  morning  both  the  au- 
thor and  the  poem  are  ready — the  one  for  the  saw-pit  and 
the  other  for  the  press ;  and  when  the  latter  has  done  its 
work,  a  copy  is  sent  with  Mr.  John  Potter's  compliments 
to  our  good  friend  the  Quaker.  It  has  been  said — but 
neither  you  nor  I  can  believe  it  as  we  look  into  his  calm, 
honest  face  as  he  stands  there  looking  up  into  the  poplar 
trees  to  see  which  way  the  wind  is  blowing — that  the 
Quaker  snorts  and  fumes  and  exhibits  emotions  of  a  dan- 
gerous tendency  when  he  receives  and  reads  his  neigh- 
bor's effusions.  He  has  even  been  charged  with  throw- 
ing the  copy  behind  the  fire,  and  then,  being  uncertain  as 
to  some  line  but  faintly  remembered,  and  his  curiosity 
growing  greater  as  his  memory  grows  less,  has  sent  to 
ask  Mr.  Potter  to  do  him  the  favor  of  giving  him  an- 


2O6  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

other  copy.  The  sawyer-poet  is  flattered  and  delighted : 
his  rival  is  doubtless  impressed ;  he  has  pleasure  too  ex- 
tensive to  be  set  forth  in  an  ordinary  foolscap  sheet  of 
paper  in  acceding  to  his  request.  A  few  days  later,  and 
within  an  envelope  John  finds  the  copy  with  emendations 
and  criticisms  crushing  and  severe,  and  a  request  that  he 
will  pay  up  the  five  weeks'  arrears  of  rent  without  fur- 
ther delay — even  more  crushing  and  severe.  But  John 
is  not  vanquished.  The  poem  is  dedicated  to  some  local 
patron ;  and  when  it  is  presented,  John  receives  a  guinea 
— perhaps  two  guineas,  for  the  gentry  are  careful  to 
encourage  incipient  genius  and  do  not  wish  to  have  the 
misfortunes  of  Goldsmith  or  the  tragedy  of  Chatterton 
repeated — and  armed  with  that  John  calls  upon  his  land- 
lord, gives  him  a  piece  of  his  mind  and  pays  his  rent  in 
full. 

Our  Quaker,  however,  is  not  harsh,  though  his  treat- 
ment of  his  brother-genius  may  seem  so.  He  is  kind  to 
his  tenants ;  and  when  they  bring  their  rent  he  gives 
each  of  the  children  an  apple  or  a  dose  of  camphor  and 
nitre.  The  latter  is  in  cases  where  he  thinks  medicine 
is  needed,  and  it  is  always  taken,  because  he  is  a  great 
man  and  a  wise  man.  He  also  lends  books  to  the  good 
boys  of  the  neighborhood.  He  quarrels  with  no  one, 
and,  as  he  and  his  wife  are  the  only  Quakers  in  the  town, 
his  dining-room  does  for  a  place  of  worship ;  and  some 
evilly-  and  carnally-minded  folks  have  said  that  the  two 
Friends  have  sat  there  in  silence  the  whole  of  a  Sunday 
afternoon,  not  uttering  a  word  and  only  bobbing  their 
heads  at  each  other.  Be  this  as  it  may,  he  always  pays 
his  tithe  and  treats  the  parson  with  respect. 

The  old  man  is  charitably  disposed.     As  he  comes 


THAME.  207 

down  the  street  toward  us  he  stops  to  speak  to  that 
woman  who  in  sun-bonnet  and  shabby  black  dress  is 
going  in  the  opposite  direction.  She  keeps  a  bakery  not 
far  from  here,  is  a  Baptist,  and  looks  upon  Quakers  and 
people  of  that  stamp  as  self-righteous  Pharisees  and  not 
much  better  than  ignorant  and  worldly  churchmen.  But 
she  has  a  son  who  has  brought  her  trouble — woeful  trou- 
ble not  to  be  spoken  about — and  were  we  nearer  we 
should  hear  the  kindly  Friend's  customary  greeting :  "  Is 
thee  well  to-day  ?"  See !  without  waiting  for  a  reply  he 
slips  a  gold  coin  into  her  hand  and  passes  on.  She 
looks  at  it ;  a  tear  comes  into  her  eye ;  a  vision  of  hope 
passes  before  her ;  and  she  lifts  up  her  heart  to  God  that 
he  will  bring  that  man  into  the  truth,  save  him  from  hia 
legalism  and  will-worship  and  make  him  an  heir  of 
glory. 

Farther  on,  nearly  opposite  where  we  are  standing,  is 
the  barber's  shop.  Mr.  Simon  is  a  tailor  by  trade  and 
a  Methodist  by  profession.  His  shaving  and  haircutting 
is  an  extra  accomplishment,  done  because  there  is  no 
one  else  at  this  end  of  the  town  competent  to  reduce 
stubbly  beards  or  to  make  a  feather-lock  on  a  boy's 
crown.  He  is  a  deliberate  man :  he  walks,  eats,  talks, 
snuffs,  snips  his  scissors,  sneezes,  in  a  deliberate  way. 
When  he  is  serious,  as  at  prayer-meetings  or  when  shav- 
ing some  unknown  stranger,  he  is  very  deliberate.  He 
has  frequently  prayed  down  two  inches  of  tallow  candle, 
and  not  a  few  of  the  brethren  have  wished  that  Brother 
Simon's  piety  would  run  a  little  faster  and  his  devotions 
keep  within  one  snuffing  of  the  candle ;  but  the  sisters 
think  him  exactly  and  edifyingly  right.  When  engaged 
in  controversy,  as  is  often  the  case,  he  is  somewhat  of 

14 


2O8  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

Sir  Roger  de  Coverley's  turn  of  mind,  and  thinks  there 
is  much  to  be  said  on  both  sides  of  the  question.  On 
only  two  things  are  he  and  the  principal  man  in  the  Bap- 
tist chapel  fully  agreed — first,  that  the  Church  is  a  nest- 
bed  of  popery  and  wickedness ;  and  secondly,  that  the 
parson  and  the  Quaker  are  good  men,  but  not  after  God's 
own  heart.  The  Baptist  man  is  a  butcher,  and  they  deal 
with  each  other,  but  they  have  never  prayed  together 
for  Church,  parson  or  Quaker,  because  the  one  is  doubt- 
ful if  the  other  has  true  saving  knowledge,  after  all. 
How  a  man  can  say  he  loves  God  and  not  take  to  elec- 
tion and  immersion  is  the  problem  on  the  one  side,  and 
how  he  could  love  God  and  take  to  them  is  the  problem 
on  the  other.  They  have  discussed  the  question  over 
and  over  again,  but  without  any  further  result  than  mak- 
ing the  tailor-barber  threaten  to  buy  no  beef  from  the 
butcher,  and  the  butcher  declare  that  he  will  neither 
send  his  cloth  to  the  tailor-barber  nor  come  himself  to 
have  his  hair  cut.  But  the  breeze  passes  over,  and  each 
generously  forgives  the  other;  only,  when  the  Baptist 
remarks  that  he  will  pray  for  his  erring  brother  that  he 
may  see  the  light,  Brother  Simon  replies  more  deliber- 
ately and  freezingly  than  ever,  "  I  rather  think  you  had 
better  pray  for  yourself." 

Now,  if  there  was  any  person  in  Thame  or  in  the  re- 
gion round  about  of  whom  Brother  Simon  had  a  com- 
plete and  wholesome  dread,  it  was  the  district  visitor. 
When  she  died,  he  said  "  Thank  God  !"  with  a  full  and 
grateful  heart.  She  was  an  indefatigable  lady  of  middle 
life,  full  of  zeal  and  discretion  and  a  loyal  and  patriotic 
churchwoman.  Within  her  part  of  the  town  she  visited 
every  house  regularly  once  a  fortnight.  She  knew  noth- 


THAME.  209 

ing  about  dissenters  and  honestly  refused  to  recognize 
them.  Were  they  not  all  English  people  ?  and  therefore 
did  they  not  all  belong  to  the  Church  of  the  English 
people  ?  So  she  visited  Wesleyans,  and  nursed  sick 
Baptists,  and  gave  presents  to  Independent  boys  and 
girls,  and  lent  money  to  everybody,  irrespective  of  sect 
or  denomination.  Her  influence  was,  therefore,  very 
great,  and,  though  she  would  no  more  think  of  going 
into  the  Baptist  meeting-house  than  she  would  of  going 
into  the  Red  Lion  bowling-alley,  she  was  much  beloved 
by  every  one.  Even  the  Quaker  approved  of  her,  and, 
being  somewhat  of  a  genealogist  and  antiquary,  thought 
of  trying  to  ascertain  if  she  were  not  a  descendant  or  a 
relative  of  a  good  Quaker  family ;  but  when  he  intimated 
this  to  her  and  she  warmly  repudiated  the  possibility,  he 
gave  up  the  idea.  Only  Brother  Simon  could  not  endure 
her.  When  she  called,  he  treated  her  with  scant  cour- 
tesy, and  the  tract  which  she  left  he  carefully  stuck  high 
up  behind  the  looking-glass,  so  that  no  one  might  see  it 
and  she  might  have  it  unread  when  she  called  again. 
She  had  a  strong  objection  to  those  personal  appeals 
which  at  one  time  were  characteristic  of  Wesleyans,  and 
she  told  our  friend  that  she  thought  such  very  rude  and 
vulgar — that,  as  at  a  table  no  polite  host  would  press 
his  guest  to  take  that  for  which  he  did  not  care  and  had 
declined,  so  no  minister  having  self-respect  would  force 
upon  people  that  which  they  did  not  desire.  Religion, 
she  added,  was  not  like  medicine,  to  be  given  as  mothers 
give  children  castor-oil — with  a  spoon  and  a  rod.  But 
as  Brother  Simon  had  never  in  his  life  dined  with  a  gen- 
tleman and  was  in  the  habit,  when  he  had  a  guest  at  his 
table,  of  making  him  eat  as  much  as  he  would  hold, 


2IO  THE  HEART  OF  M ERR  IE  ENGLAND. 

after  the  manner  of  the  plebeian  English,  he  did  not  see 
the  force  of  the  objection ;  and,  as  for  castor-oil,  he  al- 
ways gave  it  to  his  children  with  black-currant  jam.  The 
district  visitor  was  doubtless  without  the  light.  She  was 
lost  in  the  Church ;  poor  soul !  she  was  gone.  He  had 
heard  of  two  or  three  young  men  who  had  been  very 
near  the  Lord's  vineyard  led  off  by  her  persuasion  to 
attend  the  Litany  service  at  the  parish  church  on  Sun- 
day afternoons,  and  of  no  less  than  seven  girl-probation- 
ers who  had  gone  one  after  another  to  be  bishoped.  It 
was  an  outrage,  and  he  gave  it  out  as  his  deliberate  and 
conclusive  judgment :  "  That  lady's  a  proselytizer ;  I  say 
it  knowingly,  and  I  say  it  dee-leeburatelee.  As  sure  as 
her  dress  has  flounces  and  her  hair  is  done  up  in  curls, 
her  soul  has  all  the  phalacteries  of  Pharisaism  and  her 
mind  has  all  the  crookedness  of  the  kingdom  of  Satan." 
The  sun  is  fast  dropping  behind  the  trees,  and  soon 
the  train  for  Oxford  will  be  due.  This  street  on  the  left 
is  the  highway  to  London.  The  stage-coach  rolled 
along  that  road  less  than  thirty  years  since,  and  there 
was  a  something  sweeter  than  the  whistle  of  an  engine 
in  the  winding  notes  of  the  postboy's  horn.  How 
cheerily  it  sounded  in  the  clear,  frosty  air !  Letters  and 
strangers  from  great  London  far  away!  Well,  forty- 
four  miles  was  a  long  distance  in  those  days,  and  the 
man  who  had  been  there  was  thought  something  of  a 
traveller.  The  pound  of  real  gunpowder  tea,  at  fourpence 
or  sixpence  an  ounce,  which  he  brought  back  lasted  a 
long  time  and  was  considered  a  luxury  proper  only  for 
sick  folks  and  for  Christmas.  Taken  with  milk,  it  was 
good ;  with  the  least  drop  of  brandy,  excellent.  There 
are  birds'  nests  in  the  hedges  on  that  road,  and  a  mile 


THAME.  2 1 1 

or  so  from  here  a  footpath  leading  down  to  the  river, 
where  perch  and  pike  abound.  I  know  a  good  soul — 
even  such  a  one  as  Izaak  himself — who  has  drawn 
maay  a  wriggling  eel  and  weighty  jack  out  of  that  water, 
a  man  whose  heart  at  the  sight  of  rod  and  line  leaps  as 
the  trout  to  the  fly  on  a  summer  day.  There  are  no 
game  laws  relating  to  fish,  only  the  question  of  trespass- 
ing on  the  land ;  but  it  is  not  every  one  who  has  the 
skill  to  profit  by  free  access  to  the  river.  The  fish  in 
these  old  streams  are  cunning  and  wary  and  up  to  most 
devices  of  the  angler.  Among  the  flags  and  the  rushes 
on  the  banks  are  frogs  such  as  the  sharks  of  the  fresh 
water  love,  and  under  the  willow-bark  are  grubs  and 
caddis  which  are  as  irresistible  to  a  carp  or  a  chub  as  he 
is  himself  to  a  finny  or  a  human  epicure.  In  the  late 
afternoon  you  may  often  see  some  one  with  rod  and 
wicker  basket  turning  up  this  street,  bent  for  that  same 
quiet  stream. 

This  Park  street,  through  which  we  pass  to  the  rail- 
way-station, was  a  glorious  place  to  the  schoolboys 
when  hid  within  a  November  fog.  Then  the  vision  was 
limited  by  the  thick  yellow  mist,  and  shrill  voices  cried 
their  "  Halloo  1"  and  "  Tally-ho !"  and  nimble  feet  ran 
hide-and-seek.  English  people  are  tenacious  and  assert- 
ive of  their  rights — even  English  boys.  A  funeral  of  a 
little  fellow  was  once  wending  its  way  down  this  street 
to  the  parish  church.  Four  schoolmates  carried  the 
small  coffin  and  the  friends  walked  behind :  hearses  were 
unknown  in  that  part  of  the  country.  Last  of  all  came 
a  maid  and  the  only  brother  of  the  deceased.  He  was 
crying  bitterly,  not  only  for  the  loss  of  one  dear  to  him, 
but  also  because  the  physician  concluded  that  cherry 


212  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

turnovers  were  the  cause  of  the  untimely  mortality,  and 
he  therefore  should  have  no  more.  He  was  very  fond 
of  his  brother ;  he  was  also  very  fond  of  cherry  turn- 
overs. However,  a  short  distance  down  the  street, 
another  boy — one  who  was  not  invited  to  the  funeral — 
came  up  to  our  weeping  lad  and  wished  to  walk  beside 
him.  This  was  a  privilege  to  which  he  had  no  right, 
and  he  was  instantly  and  decisively  ordered  off  He  de- 
clined to  leave ;  the  nurse  remonstrated,  but  the  dignity 
of  the  funeral  was  in  question,  and  grief  gave  way  to 
threats  and  feelings  of  violence.  That  evening,  in  a 
back  lane,  under  some  elder  trees,  two  boys  had  a  fight. 
When  the  mother  of  one  of  them  came  with  her  bruised 
and  black-eyed  son  to  the  father  of  the  other,  his  oppo- 
nent exclaimed,  "  It  was  my  funeral ;  he  had  no  right  to 
follow  my  brother  or  to  stick  himself  in." 

That  building  on  the  right,  behind  the  row  of  laurel- 
bushes,  is  the  Royal  British  School.  It  is  not  of  famous 
reputation,  nor  do  I  know  that  any  of  its  scholars  have 
reached  any  position  of  eminence.  You  might  find  some 
of  the  old  boys  wheelwrights  and  policemen — possibly, 
one  a  gamekeeper.  Nevertheless,  it  was  largely  attend- 
ed in  days  of  yore,  and  was  remarkable  for  two  things — 
a  May-pole  and  a  master.  The  former  stood  in  the  yard, 
here  on  the  south  side.  Yes,  it  is  gone,  like  many  an- 
other good  thing,  but  on  the  first  day  of  the  month  of 
flowers  it  was  adorned  with  festive  and  floral  glory. 
The  whole  town  turned  out  to  keep  May-day  then,  and 
there  was  a  May-queen,  sometimes  the  prettiest  girl  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  sometimes,  when  no  girl  would 
act,  the  prettiest  boy:  sex  made  no  difference.  Old 
folks  came  to  look  on ;  even  the  Quaker,  though  he 


THAME.  213 

was  not  sure  such  things  were  right — possibly  only  ex- 
pedient, to  please  the  youngsters.  And  the  master! 
Now,  it  is  the  master  of  whom  I  wish  to  speak,  and 
as  we  walk  on  I  will  tell  you  about  him.  He  took 
part  in  the  fun,  you  may  be  sure,  and  everybody 
thought  he  was  only  a  boy  grown  old.  His  accom- 
plishments were  varied.  First  of  all,  he  was  a  Welsh- 
man and  knew  how  to  pronounce  a  word  with  eighteen 
consonants  and  only  three  vowels  in  it.  Then  he  was  a 
musician  and  could  sing  a  song  and  scrape  a  violin. 
And  lastly  he  was  an  economic  and,  as  he  was  veiy 
poorly  paid,  knew  how  to  make  a  decent  living  out  of 
poverty.  Where  thrift,  is  an  object,  it  is  well  to  have  it 
taught  by  experienced  teachers.  Besides  these  gifts,  he 
was  a  small  man,  very  fond  of  potatoes  and  geography 
— he  would  hoe  the  one  and  talk  about  the  other  at  the 
same  time — had  a  wife,  dabbled  in  local  zoology,  rode  a 
dandy-horse,  the  precursor  of  the  bicycle,  read  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott,  knew  a  little  carpentering,  kept  rabbits  and 
canaries  and  was  looked  upon  with  respect  by  all  who 
knew  him.  The  masters  at  the  grammar-school  did 
not  know  him,  and  therefore  could  not  be  expected  to 
think  anything  of  him ;  but  their  pupil  did,  and,  not 
altogether  liking  his  solitude,  used  to  mingle  with 
these  ruder  boys,  and,  all  things  considered,  got  a  fair 
amount  of  pleasure  out  of  life.  It  was  he  who  advised 
the  rubbing  of  the  master's  cane  with  a  lemon.  During 
a  mid-day  recess  it  was  done,  placed  in  the  sun  to  dry, 
and  in  the  afternoon  when  applied  to  a  boy's  shoulders 
it  split  into  fragments.  It  was  he  also  who  knew  the 
intricacies  of  tit-tat-too  and  how  to  win  all  the  fellows' 
taws.  Nobody  could  make  whistles  out  of  willow-sticks 


THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

as  well  as  he,  and  nobody  else  could  talk  Welsh  with 
the  master.  The  latter  thought  him  a  clever  and  prom- 
ising lad  and  gave  him  many  a  hint  concerning  kidney 
potatoes  and  the  use  of  the  Latin  subjunctive.  It  was 
rumored  that  they  had  frequently  gone  fishing  togeth- 
er, and  some  one  said  that  their  intention  was  some  day 
to  go  to  New  Zealand  and  buy  a  farm.  That  was  ab- 
surd on  the  face  of  it,  for  the  master  stopped  at  potatoes 
and  knew  no  more  about  fox-hunting — which  is  an  es- 
sential qualification  to  good  farming — than  the  man  who 
was  sent  to  the  moon  for  gathering  sticks  on  a  Sunday. 
— Here  is  the  train !  Oxford  ?  All  right.  Grand  old 
place,  Thame.  Full  of  interest.;  church  worth  going 
many  a  mile  to  see.  Tired  ?  Warm  day  and  a  long 
walk.  Never  mind;  draw  the  blue  curtain  aside  and 
let  the  last  sunbeams  in. — Well,  yes,  'the  old  school- 
master is  dead.  He  died  years  ago — some  said  studied 
to  death  and  some  said  starved  to  death,  but  there  is  no 
telling.  Teachers  were  not  paid  much  in  those  days, 
and  the  wonder  is  there  were  any  teachers  at  all.  Com- 
mon people  did  not  want  their  children  to  know  more 
than  plain  reading  and  writing  and  the  rule  of  three. 
They  had  been  happy  on  less,  and  fine  schooling  was 
not  for  the  likes  of  them.  Now  that  is  all  changed. 
Education  is  the  order  of  the  day.  Ploughboys  have 
a  chance  to  learn  Greek,  and  girls  whose  mothers 
washed  dishes  at  twopence  an  hour  can  embroider 
and  play  the  piano.  It  is  enough  to  disturb  even 
Lord  Williams  and  all  the  old  squires  at  Aston  Row- 
ant.  And  what  will  be  the  end  ?  You  cannot  have  wait 
on  you  at  table  a  fellow  who  knows  the  rudiments  of 
Sanskrit  and  all  about  conic  sections,  nor  can  you  have 


THAME.  21$ 

to  scrub  your  floor  or  to  starch  your  collars  a  woman 
who  can  speak  Italian  and  criticise  Matthew  Arnold. 
When  everybody  knows  as  much  as  you  know,  what  will 
become  of  you  ?  Electricity,  eh  ?  Nonsense !  Talk 
about  electricity  after  a  day  spent  in  the  country  and  a 
town  whose  only  idea  of  a  track  of  lightning  is  the  trail 
of  a  snail  across  a  cabbage-leaf!  In  America  we  have 
the  negro  and  the  Irish  to  do  our  heavy  labor  and  the 
Chinese  to  do  our  washing,  but  what  have  you  imEng- 
land  got  ?  No,  the  people  here  are  dull ;  we  have  seen 
more  to-day  than  half  the  inhabitants  hereabouts  have 
seen  in  a  lifetime.  But  they  are  going  to  wake  up ;  the 
schools  are  doing  wonders.  If  the  old  master  were  to 
come  back,  he  would  shake  his  head  and  say,  "  Alas ! 
alas !  Teaching  the  boys  political  economy  and  the 
girls  botany !  And  where  is  that  obedience  which 
only  can  make  boys  men  and  girls  women?" 

Oxford  again.  Woodstock,  Chipping  Norton,  More- 
ton-in-the-Marsh.  A  few  miles'  drive  in  the  clear, 
bright  moonlight,  and  then  we  sleep  amid  lavender 
and  shadows. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

pilgrimage  to 


"  And  specially,  from  every  schires  ende 
Of  Engelond,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende, 
The  holy  blisful  martir  for  to  seeke, 
That  hem  hath  holpen  whan  that  they  were  seeke." 

No  loyal  churchman  visiting  England  is  likely  to 
forego  the  pilgrimage  to  Canterbury.  That  is  among 
his  first  duties,  and  is  one  of  his  chief  pleasures.  There 
is  the  cradle  of  English  Christendom  ;  there,  the  throne 
of  the  primate  and  patriarch  of  the  Anglican  communion. 
If  he  seek  but  to  gratify  his  love  for  history  and  art, 
here  he  will  revel  in  associations  and  surroundings  of 
rare  and  multiform  nature,  and  in  the  splendor  of  re- 
ligious imagination  and  skill  will  feel  as  Mohammed  did 
concerning  Damascus:  "After  Canterbury,  only  para- 
dise." 

Our  journey  thitherward  was  made  in  a  pleasant  sun- 
ny morning.  We  could  not,  indeed,  travel  in  the  happy, 
leisurely  way  of  dear  old  Chaucer's  pilgrims,  but  the 
run  by  rail  from  Charing  Cross  through  the  glorious 
Kentish  land  —  the  country  where  the  roses  are  redder 
and  the  grass  is  greener  than  in  any  other  region  in  the 
kingdom  —  is  of  satisfying  charm.  The  district  is  rich 
in  fertile  fields,  thick  hedgerows,  noble  trees,  great  hop- 
gardens and  pretty  towns  and  villages.  There  are  sev- 

216 


THE  PILGRIMAGE    TO   CANTERBURY.  2\J 

eral  tunnels — one  two  miles  and  a  half  long — within 
the  first  thirty  miles.  The  road  by  which  mine  host  of 
the  Tabard  led  his  guests  is  far  to  the  north  of  this,  and 
it  is  only  the  lack  of  time  which  compels  one  to  avoid 
that  long-honored  highway  to  the  shrine  of  the  blissful 
St.  Thomas. 

But  this,  notwithstanding,  does  not  keep  the  mind 
from  Chaucer.  The  morning  sunlight,  soft  and  roseate, 
falls  upon  the  open  volume  of  The  Canterbury  Tales  in 
our  hand — open,  but,  alas !  unread.  Away  fly  the 
thoughts  to  the  days  when  the  Third  Edward  sat  upon 
the  throne  of  England,  and,  though  many  things,  such 
as  printing,  railways,  telegraphs,  and  sundry  other  in- 
ventions, have  changed  the  appearances  and  conditions 
of  life,  yet  one  feels  that  nature  and  the  inner  and  deeper 
flow  of  human  existence  remain  very  much  the  same. 
Man  lives  and  loves  the  same,  works,  rejoices,  sorrows 
and  dies  the  same,  through  all  the  ages ;  and  the  mys- 
terious and  monotonous  life  moves  steadily  on  through 
the  centuries  and  the  millenniums,  not  so  much  chang- 
ing itself  as  changing  all  around  it.  If  there  be  one 
author  more  than  another  who  convinces  us  of  this  fact, 
and  in  bringing  us  face  to  face  with  the  men  and  the 
women  of  his  day  and  generation  shows  us  that  they 
are  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood  as  ourselves,  it  is 
Geoffrey  Chaucer.  There  is  no  more  graphic  picture  of 
English  life  in  the  Middle  Ages  than  that  which  he  has 
given  us.  He  introduces  us,  indeed,  to  a  world  differing 
widely  from  our  own — a  world  in  which  manners  and 
customs  appear  strange  and  the  charm  and  the  power 
of  the  age  of  faith  and  of  chivalry  are  still  vigorous 
and  enchanting.  Much  that  goes  to  make  up  our  mod- 


2l8  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

ern  civilization  was  then  unknown.  Warriors  wore  their 
armor  and  their  coat  of  mail,  and  fought  with  bows  and 
arrows,  battering-rams  and  lances;  ships  spread  their 
white  sails  to  the  winds  and-  thought  not  of  the  days  of 
steam ;  the  minstrel  strolled  through  the  land  from  vil- 
lage to  village,  from  castle  to  castle,  and  told  the  gos- 
sip of  the  court  and  the  country,  and  sang  his  lays  of 
heroes  to  admiring  villains,  retainers,  churls  and  gen- 
tlemen ;  and  the  English  people  lived  in  a  great  wilder- 
ness-land with  here  and  there  roads  running  through  the 
mighty  primaeval  forests,  and  fens  undrained,  and  ham- 
lets built  of  wood  and  mud,  and  serfs  bound  to  the  soil, 
and  abbeys  hid  away  in  woody  glens,  and  quaint,  busy 
towns,  scattered  along  the  river-banks  or  the  great  high- 
ways, for  ever  struggling  for  their  rights  and  working 
out  the  beginnings  of  England's  urban  and  commercial 
splendor.  But,  in  spite  of  all  the  differences,  Chaucer 
teaches  us  that  one  feature  changes  not,  and  that  is  man. 
His  characters  are  such  as  we  may  see  any  day  of  our 
life,  or,  to  put  it  another  way,  were  we  transplanted  to 
that  age  we  would  be  the  same  as  they  whom  he  de- 
scribes. 

Chaucer  was  born  in  the  city  of  London  about  the 
year  1346.^  His  father  was  a  wine-merchant  with  suf- 
ficient wealth  and  influence  to  give  his  son  a  good  edu- 
cation and  introduce  him  to  the  society  of  the  court. 
In  his  lifetime  our  author  served  in  the  camp,  the  cus- 
tom-house and  the  Parliament;  he  tried  his  military 
prowess  on  continental  battlefields  and  his  diplomatic 
skill  in  foreign  lands ;  he  mingled  with  the  great  and  the 
learned,  the  witty  and  the  wise,  of  his  own  and  of  other 
countries,  and  thus  obtained  a  personal  knowledge  of 


THE   PILGRIMAGE    TO   CANTERBURY.  2 19 

human  nature  and  character.  He  was  a  large,  corpulent 
man  with  a  small,  fair  and  intelligent  face,  downcast, 
meditative  eyes  and  a  shy  and  weird  expression  of  coun- 
tenance. Though  a  diligent  student  and  somewhat  her- 
mit-like in  his  mode  of  living,  yet  he  loved  good  and 
pleasant  society,  enjoyed  the  pleasures  of  the  festive 
board,  entered  heartily  with  his  roguish  genial  humor 
and  quaint  fun  into  mirth  and  merrymaking,  and  was 
beloved  by  all  who  knew  him.  As  a  poet  he  does  not 
stand  beside  the  other  princes  of  the  art,  Homer,  Dante 
and  Shakespeare,  but  he  is  among  the  first  of  those  who 
come  after  them.  Few  can  describe  a  scene  or  a  cha- 
racter better  than  he,  tell  a  more  admirable  story  or 
write  a  truer  or  more  melodious  line  of  verse.  "  His 
best  tales  " — if  I  may  use  the  words  of  a  master- critic — 
"  run  on  like  one  of  our  inland  rivers,  sometimes  hasten- 
ing a  little  and  turning  upon  themselves  in  eddies  that 
dimple  without  retarding  the  current,  sometimes  loiter- 
ing smoothly,  while  here  and  there  a  quiet  thought,  a 
tender  feeling,  a  pleasant  image,  a  golden-hearted  verse, 
opens  quietly  as  a  water-lily,  to  float  on  the  surface 
without  breaking  it  into  ripple."  Chaucer  has  little  or 
nothing  to  do  with  those  fields  in  which  Dante  and  Mil- 
ton suffered  their  imagination  to  roam  with  such  mag- 
nificent and  sublime  freedom.  They  lift  the  veil  that 
hides  the  Unseen,  and  display,  now  to  our  delight  and 
now  to  our  horror,  the  mysteries  of  the  eternal  past  and 
of  heaven  and  hell.  They  lead  the  soul  through  dark- 
some, gruesome  avenues  and  fearful,  awe-subduing 
scenes  full  of  shadows  and  suggestions  that  chill  the 
blood  and  distress  the  mind.  The  faithful  reader  of  the 
Divine  Comedy  and  the  Paradise  Lost,  while  delighted 


220  THE  HEART  OF  M ERR  IE  ENGLAND. 

with  the  glowing  and  finished  imagery  and  the  vast  and 
splendid  creations,  will  remain  suspicious  of  the  truth 
and  half  annoyed  at  the  thought  that  the  scenes  before 
him  are  painted  upon  clouds,  to  be  driven  and  scattered 
by  the  winds  of  reality.  He  will  admit  the  general 
facts,  but  will  question  the  verity  or  the  verisimilitude 
of  the  poet's  coloring.  This  is  in  itself  a  defect  of  art 
perhaps  inseparable  from  the  kind  of  subject  with  which 
Milton  and  Dante  dealt,  though  the  latter,  being  the 
more  skilful  artist  and  the  greater  poet,  has  it  less 
marked  than  the  former.  What  I  mean  by  this  is,  one 
can  go  with  Dante  through  the  Inferno  and  Paradiso 
almost,  but  not  entirely,  thinking  it  to  be  true  and  real ; 
with  Milton  this  power  to  absorb  and  to  entrance  ex- 
ists in  a  much  less  degree.  But  Chaucer  avoids  mys- 
tery, and  therefore  avoids  these  difficulties.  There  is 
not  in  his  work — unless,  possibly,  it  is  in  some  of  his 
renderings  of  legendary  or  foreign  stories — a  single  im- 
possible character.  His  creations  are  of  flesh  and  blood 
— of  such  flesh  and  blood  as  those  of  Shakespeare  and 
those  of  our  every- day  life.  There  is  no  question  of 
truth  or  of  falsehood :  that  does  not  arise ;  and  as  an 
illustration  of  this  it  may  be  noted  that  to  this  day  it  is 
uncertain  whether  the  prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales 
be  fact  or  fiction.  Defoe  had  the  faculty  of  presenting 
fiction  as  truth — his  History  of  the  Plague  and  his  Rob- 
inson Crusoe  are  remarkable  instances  of  this — but  I 
think,  admitting  the  art,  no  one  would  maintain  the  re- 
ality. Certainly,  a  company  of  learned  men  would  not 
sit  down  seriously  to  consider  the  fact  or  the  invention 
of  the  hero  of  juvenile  life.  Here  and  there  the  robe  is 
thrust  aside  and  the  void  appears.  But  you  may  try 


THE  PILGRIMAGE    TO   CANTERBURY.  221 

your  best  with  Chaucer's  prologue,  apply  to  it  every 
canon  of  criticism  that  you  like,  and  you  will  utterly  fail 
to  decide  that  it  is  not  true  and  literal. 

What  a  group  does  the  poet  present  to  us  in  his 
Canterbury  pilgrims !  How  vivid  and  how  real  they  ap- 
pear !  All  sorts  and  conditions  are  there — men  of  war, 
ecclesiastics,  shipmen,  merchants,  tradesmen,  servants, 
farmers  and  women  of  both  the  world  and  the  Church. 
Their  idiosyncrasies  are  described  and  an  individuality 
is  imparted  with  true  dramatic  power.  Once  master 
the  description  of  any  one  of  them,  and  that  one  for 
ever  remains  distinct  in  the  mind.  No  one  can  forget 
Madam  Eglentyne,  the  prioress,  "  that  of  her  smiling 
was  full  simple  and  coy,"  so  expert  in  singing  the 
"service  divine,  entuned  in  her  nose  full  seemly,"  so 
gracious  in  her  manner  and  learned  in  her  language, 
and  so  tender-hearted  that  she  wept  over  a  mouse 
caught  in  a  trap  and  fed  her  dogs  with  roasted  flesh, 
milk  and  bread  made  of  the  finest  flour.  She  had  a 
long  and  well-proportioned  nose,  green  eyes,  a  small 
mouth  and  a  remarkable  forehead.  The  goodwife  of 
Bath,  with  her  bold  red  face,  her  loud  laugh  and  her 
remedies  for  love,  was  a  very  different  personage.  She 
wore  sharp  spurs  on  her  feet,  and,  besides  company  in 
her  youth,  had  had  five  husbands.  But  what  strikes 
you  is  the  distinctiveness  of  all  the  characters;  each 
has  a  strong  personality.  The  good  parson,  the 
physician  whose  "  study  was  but  little  on  the  Bible," 
the  brown-hued  sailor,  the  merry  friar,  the  fat  monk, 
the  gentle  pardoner,  the  choleric  reeve  and  the  brave 
knight  stand  out  in  the  company  as  never  to  be  for- 
gotten, as  people  whom  we  seem  to  have  ourselves 


222  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

known  and  spoken  to — old  friends,  indeed,  as  familiar, 
every  one  of  them,  as  Sir  John  Falstaff,  Samuel  Pick- 
wick, Esq.,  and  the  meddlesome  old  gentleman  of  St. 
Rowan's  Well. 

There  is  in  Chaucer  an  absence  of  introspection  and 
subjectivity,  so  painful  in  many  poets  and  so  popular 
with  many  people.  It  may  seem  a  small  thing  for  a  man 
to  look  within  or  without — within,  upon  his  own  self, 
his  thoughts,  emotions,  powers,  sins,  virtues,  and  so- 
forth ;  or  without,  upon  the  world  of  men  and  nature 
with  its  multiform  life ;  but  the  result  is  great.  Perhaps 
the  most  unhealthful  tendency  of  certain  religious  types 
is  this  constant  morbid  looking  within,  dissecting  and 
testing  feelings,  analyzing  conceptions  of  truth  and  mo- 
tives of  vice  and  virtue;  it  is  popular,  but  is  neither 
soul-strengthening  nor  soul-developing.  Its  root  is  sel- 
fishness. As  if  self  were  the  alHmportant  thing  in  the 
universe,  the  most  wonderful  of  God's  creations  and  the 
object  of  his  exclusive  care !  Under  the  plea  of  being 
spiritual  and  having  adroitly  fastened  the  epithet  "  mor- 
al " — which  is  supposed  to  imply  awful  and  intelligent 
depravity — upon  its  opponent,  it  spends  its  time  in  tak- 
ing care  of  dear  self  both  for  time  and  for  eternity.  As 
far  as  the  world  is  concerned,  it  is  not  worth  a  thought, 
and  may  go  on  to  ruin  and  to  death.  When  you  meet 
with  one  having  this  tendency,  if  you  are  fortunate 
enough  in  having  a  soul  otherwise  constituted,  you  feel 
that  there  is  a  great  gulf  between  you.  There  is  no 
touch,  no  affinity.  You  have  no  common  ground  of  in- 
terest. To  the  one,  self  is  but  as  a  plumed  seed  drifting 
hither  and  thither  on  the  autumn  winds.  Hence  you 
read  many  writers,  and  you  lay  aside  their  books  as 


THE   PILGRIMAGE    TO   CANTERBURY.  22$ 

being  good,  indeed,  but  not  exactly  what  you  want ;  you 
cannot  get  into  them.  But  Chaucer  is  not  of  this  kind. 
You  read  his  lines,  and  you  are  at  once  face  to  face  with 
things  that  are  to  you  real  and  living. 

Take  his  patriotism.  Chaucer  lays  the  framework  of 
his  Canterbury  Tales  in  the  country  of  his  birth  and  his 
love,  and  in  doing  so  he  makes  his  framework  thoroughly 
English.  It  is  true  Boccaccio  had  done  the  same  with 
his  tales :  they  are  in  themselves  Italian  and  set  in  an 
Italian  background ;  but  Boccaccio's  background  is  re- 
pulsive to  an  English  mind.  Florence  is  suffering  from 
a  plague  of  which  the  author  gives  a  most  powerful  and 
ghastly  description,  and  while  the  plague  is  devastating 
the  city,  filling  its  homes  with  bitterest  sorrow  and  its 
streets  with  neglected  dead,  the  Florentines  are  away  in 
a  country  villa  amusing  themselves  with  the  recital  of 
tales,  of  the  morality  of  which  the  least  said  the  better. 
Of  course  Boccaccio's  object  was  artistic,  and  he  has 
made  the  contrast  decided  and  terrible ;  but  I  venture 
to  say  that  no  English  mind  can  endure  a  contrast  so 
great  and  so  awful.  It  is  like  dancing  on  the  graves  of 
the  dead — like  minstrelsy  in  the  house  of  mourning. 
There  is  a  heartlessness  in  the  whole  work :  its  teaching 
is  heartless ;  the  best,  perhaps  the  only  redeeming,  story 
in  the  collection — that  of  Griselda — is  a  piece  of  heart- 
lessness impossible  except,  perchance,  in  an  Italian. 
Boccaccio  was  true  to  his  natural  instincts  and  to  his 
age ;  so  was  Chaucer,  and,  thank  God !  England  is  not 
Italy.  Our  great  poet  has  no  black  canvas  on  which  to 
set  his  creations,  no  harrowing  contrasts  wherewith  to 
produce  his  effects.  Instead  of  a  plague-stricken  city, 
it  is  a  pilgrimage  of  happy,  light-hearted  English  people 

15 


234  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

along  a  highway  in  the  bright  springtime  through  the 
sweet  Kentish  land  to  the  shrine  of  England's  national 
saint,  Thomas  a  Becket.  Twenty-nine  men  and  wofnen 
met  at  the  Tabard  Inn,  in  Southwark,  and  agreed  to 
travel  together  to  Canterbury  and  to  beguile  the  journey 
with  the  recital  of  tales  of  adventure  or  legend.  It  may 
seem  odd  to  us  of  the  nineteenth  century  that  such  mer- 
rymaking should  associate  itself  with  a  religious  under- 
taking, but  English  people  had  not  then  heard,  and  they 
have  not  learned  yet,  that  religion  is  not  to  enter  into 
everything,  and  that  in  everything,  even  common  things 
such  as  eating  and  drinking,  there  is  not  a  religious  ele- 
ment. They  saw  no  incongruity  between  a  gay  journey 
and  devotion  to  St.  Thomas  of  Canterbury;  joy  and 
piety  were  both  gifts  of  God.  And  note  that  devotion 
to  St.  Thomas.  Of  course  most  of  us  have  been  taught 
that  he  was  a  bad  man,  a  proud,  arrogant  abomination — 
not  one  word  of  which  is  true — but  we  must  remember 
that  immediately  after  his  death  and  for  three  centuries 
he  was  England's  popular  saint.  The  people  thronged 
to  his  shrine.  The  cathedral  of  Canterbury  was  en- 
riched by  the  oblations  of  the  thousands  who  bowed 
the  knee  there.  Churches  were  dedicated  to  him,  not 
only  in  England,  but  even  in  Scotland  and  in  distant 
Iceland.  He  was  the  beloved  martyr  of  the  Church  of 
England — beloved  in  his  own  age  and  in  succeeding 
ages,  till  at  last  there  arose  a  generation  that  loved  the 
patrimony  of  St.  Thomas  better  than  it  loved  his  mem- 
ory and  desired  rather  his  gold  than  his  blessing.  Since 
then  Thomas  a  Becket  has  been  esteemed  the  vilest  of 
the  vile,  and  the  ten  generations  of  Englishmen  that 
honored  him  have  been  considered  the  foolishest  of  the 


THE   PILGRIMAGE    TO   CANTERBURY.  22$ 

foolish  and  the  blindest  of  the  blind.  But  Chaucer  did 
not  foresee  these  latter  days,  and  his  faith  in  the  national 
saint  was  strong  and  his  devotion  great  He  has  little 
sympathy  with  those  who  seek  for  foreign  shrines ;  the 
"  holy  blisful  martir "  of  Canterbury  was  enough  for 
him — a  spice  of  contempt  for  everything  un-English  so 
characteristic  of  our  forefathers. 

Yonder  rises  the  cathedral  high  above  the  city  around 
it,  grander  than  when  the  pilgrims  beheld  it  five  hundred 
years  ago.  A  feeling  of  laudable  pride  moves  the  soul — a 
moment  in  which  one  thanks  God  that  one  is  a  member 
of  the  Church  which  has  its  earthly  centre  in  a  structure 
so  magnificent  and  so  hallowed.  The  traveller  enters  the 
city  through  the  west  gate,  built  by  Archbishop  Simon 
of  Sudbury,  and  the  only  city  gate  remaining.  Hence 
he  passes  through  St.  Peter's  street  into  High  street,  on 
the  left-hand  side  of  which  he  will  find  the  narrow  way 
called  Mercery  lane,  down  which  the  pilgrims  went  to 
the  cathedral.  Here  they  bought  relics  and  tokens  of 
St.  Thomas,  and  some  of  the  wealthier  among  them 
found  hospitality  at  the  Chequers  Inn,  at  the  corner  of 
High  street.  In  the  present  heavy,  antique  building 
some  parts  of  the  ancient  hostelry  remain,  but,  alas!  in- 
stead of  silvern  and  leaden  images  of  the  holy  martyr, 
guide-books  and  baby-linen  are  now  the  staple  articles 
of  merchandise.  There  are  in  this  day  no  sounds  of 
joyous  revelry,  no  busy  throng  of  worshippers  from  all 
parts  of  Christendom,  no  signs  that  this  was  once  the 
liveliest  part  of  Canterbury ;  all  is  quiet,  sleepy,  dull — 
pleasantly  and  attractively  so.  Walk  leisurely  through 
the  narrow  lane  with  its  old  overhanging  houses  on  both 
sides,  and  think  of  the  days  when  thronging  multitudes 


226  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

frequented  the  shrine  of  England's  greatest  saint.  There, 
at  the  end,  is  the  gate,  erected  in  the  reign  of  Henry 
VIII.,  leading  into  the  precincts.  The  cathedral  appears 
in  all  its  massive  splendor — a  glorious  pile  the  vastness 
of  which  can  best  be  realized  by  walking  around  it  be- 
fore seeing  the  inside.  The  more  one  looks,  the  greater 
and  more  wonderful  the  building  becomes.  It  grows  as 
the  minutes  pass  by.  Gradually  the  fact  possesses  the 
mind  that  in  bygone  ages  churches  were  built,  not  for 
convenience  only,  not  merely  for  shelter  against  wind 
and  rain,  but  that  they  might  teach  great  lessons  and 
hand  on  from  generation  to  generation  rich  and  prof- 
itable associations. 

Before  I  speak  further  of  this  sacred  edifice  suffer  me 
to  prepare  the  way  by  imparting  somewhat  of  the  spirit 
which  loves  to  linger  amongst  the  glories  of  the  past, 
and  to  see  in  architecture  and  in  symbolism  lessons  of 
deepest  interest  and  greatest  value. 

No  one  contends  that  buildings  are  essential  to  Chris- 
tianity. The  early  Christians  had  none;  their  system 
made  no  provision  for  material  temples.  God  was 
everywhere,  and  he  could  be  worshipped  everywhere 
— as  well  on  the  hillside,  in  the  desert  or  by  the  ocean- 
shore  as  within  the  deftly-covered  walls  and  beneath  the 
ceiling  of  cedar  in  Jerusalem.  They  worshipped  in 
secret,  in  the  catacombs,  the  caves  of  the  earth,  the 
wilds  of  the  forest  and  the  little  upper  chamber.  The 
missionary  who  preached  the  gospel  in  the  open  air 
presented  the  truth  to  his  hearers  as  purely  and  as 
truly  as  did  they  who  spoke  in  the  basilicas  of  Chris- 
tian Rome.  The  twining  branches  of  the  woodland 
trees  or  the  blue  vaulted  sky  itself  gave  him  a  roof  as 


THE  PILGRIMAGE    TO   CANTERBURY.  22/ 

grand  for  the  nonce  as  he  could  wish  whose  mind  was 
full  of  weighty  truths  and  whose  soul  burned  with 
celestial  fire.  Upon  a  mound  of  earth  or  on  a  rough- 
hewn  stone  he  placed  the  symbol  of  salvation,  and  as 
he  pointed  men  to  that  and  told  them  of  Him  who  had 
died  thereon  hard  hearts  were  softened  and  proud  knees 
bent  in  penitence  upon  the  green  sward  or  on  the  dusty 
ground.  Many  a  soul-stirring  sermon  was  preached 
and  many  an  impressive  service  held  in  Nature's  own 
grand  sanctuary  long  before  cathedral  was  seen  in  the 
land.  Even  in  our  own  day  an  open-air  service  is  not 
without  its  charm  and  power,  while  in  cottage-rooms, 
on  board  ships,  in  factories  and  plain  little  chapels, 
Christianity  still  retains  its  converting,  ennobling  and 
beautifying  strength.  You  will  find  the  begrimed 
miner  come  from  the  gathering  of  two  or  three  wor- 
shippers in  a  corner  of  the  dark  mine  a  better  and  a 
happier  man;  you  will  feel  the  divine  afflatus  in  the 
little  company  who  by  the  riverside  in  the  summer 
evening  have  sought  to  speak  one  to  another  of  the 
mysteries  and  the  love  of  God. 

But,  for  all  that,  a  building  in  which  the  graces  and 
the  symbolic  truths  of  architecture  are  displayed  can- 
not fail  to  produce  a  beneficial  effect  upon  the  soul  and 
to  impart  a  fuller  and  a  sublimer  conception  of  Chris- 
tianity. It  was  in  the  nature  of  things  that  with  pros- 
perity and  influence  changes  should  come.  Art  could 
not  leave  untouched  the  most  beautiful  conception  ever 
given  to  man.  So  soon  as  Christianity  drew  to  itself 
the  culture  and  the  wealth  of  Greece  and  of  Rome,  so 
soon  the  bridal-dress  was  placed  upon  the  Bride  of 
Christ.  Intellect,  imagination  and  genius  went  to  the 


228  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

enrichment  of  the  religion  of  Jesus ;  art,  with  the  skill 
of  a  heavenly  enchantress,  helped  to  bring  out  its  beau- 
ty and  to  express  its  thought.  One  cannot  worship 
within  a  minster  where  the  devout  and  loving  imagina- 
tion has  wrought  its  mystic  poem  and  not  be  moved. 
There  is  a  something  which  steals  upon  the  soul  and 
fills  it  with  reverence.  The  very  walls  seem  to  speak ; 
the  many-colored  windows  and  the  lines  of  stately 
shafts  suggest  thoughts  of  hallowed  meaning.  Fancy 
fills  the  mighty  solitude  with  spirits  from  heaven's 
bright  land,  and  their  songs  break  upon  the  silence. 
The  magnificence  and  the  beauty  bring  one  into  un- 
earthly scenes  and  pour  into  the  heart  sweetness  and 
satisfaction  akin  to  that  which  angels  have.  Such  a 
building  is  an  expression  of  God :  his  glory  rests  upon 
it ;  his  presence  dwells  within  it. 

These  religious  edifices — the  very  embodiment  of 
symbolism — are  not  only  marvels  in  themselves,  but 
also  wonders  of  the  age  in  which  they  were  built. 
How  they  were  conceived  and  constructed  is  a  mys- 
tery. Our  forefathers  were  rough,  uncouth  and  coarse ; 
they  were  ignorant  and  superstitious.  Their  towns  and 
their  villages  were  the  haunts  of  misery  and  of  distress. 
In  the  narrow  undrained  streets  pestilence  lurked ;  in  the 
wretched  cottages  discomfort  reigned.  Yet  in  that  past 
of  poverty  and  rudeness  and  in  those  scenes  of  filthiness 
and  want  arose  these  beautiful  structures,  grander  than 
Egyptian,  Grecian  or  Roman  temple,  more  artistic  than 
aught  we  of  the  nineteenth  century  can  devise.  Noth- 
ing was  left  undone,  no  cost  or  labor  was  spared,  that 
was  calculated  to  move  the  spirit  of  devotion  or  to  show 
honor  to  God.  Earth  had  nothing  too  valuable  for  the 


THE  PILGRIMAGE    TO   CANTERBURY.  229 

purpose.  Princes  and  barons  gave  of  the  abundance  of 
their  wealth ;  yeomen  and  serfs  contributed  according  to 
their  substance.  Nor  was  it  the  mere  love  of  display 
that  led  to  this  magnificence ;  on  the  contrary,  in  a 
rich  symbolism  they  sought  to  perpetuate  and  to  man- 
ifest their  ideal  of  religion.  Everything  had  a  meaning 
and  a  purpose ;  everything  was  sacred  and  eternal.  If 
on  the  outside  walls  of  the  church  hideous  figures  were 
carved  to  denote  the  evil  spirits  fleeing  from  the  abode 
of  God's  presence,  inside  the  sweetest  grace  in  pillar, 
arch  and  tracery  suggested  the  beauty  and  the  majesty 
of  God's  love  and  mercy  to  man.  The  ground-plan  of 
the  building  was  that  of  a  cross,  reminding  man  of  the 
mystery  of  redemption,  and  oftentimes  with  a  deflec- 
tion in  the  lines  of  the  walls  at  the  east  end,  to  denote 
the  drooping  head  of  the  Saviour  in  his  last  moments. 
The  spire  pointing  ever  to  the  sky  told  of  the  unity  of 
the  faith  and  of  the  appealing  prayer  and  constancy  of 
the  worshippers,  while  the  bird  of  warning  upon  its  top 
recalled  the  Master's  solemn  charge  to  his  people.  The 
nave  by  name  and  by  form  spoke  of  the  "  ark  of  Christ's 
Church ;"  the  aisles,  of  the  wings  or  the  sails  of  the 
same.  None  but  men  possessed  of  a  high  conception 
of  Christianity  could  have  devised  such  lessons  or  pro- 
duced such  buildings.  They  must  have  realized  some- 
thing of  the  beauty  of  holiness,  of  the  majesty  of  God, 
of  the  awfulness  of  eternity  and  of  the  sweetness  of  par- 
adise when  they  sought  to  express  those  truths  in  the 
rough  stone  and  the  plastic  clay. 

And  the  effect  of  such  sanctuaries  upon  them  must 
have  been  great.  When  they  knelt  within  the  nave  or 
walked  along  the  aisles,  they  must  have  risen  to  heights 


230  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

of  devotion  they  could  not  have  reached  in  their  own 
miserable  homes.  They  must  have  felt  that  God  was 
very  near  them ;  that  here  the  angels  brought  comfort- 
ing messages  from  the  far-off  land  to  the  weary  and  the 
heavy  ladert;  that  within  these  consecrated  walls  the 
Lord  Jesus  was  present  for  evermore.  The  light  which 
streamed  through  the  pictured  windows  came  to  them 
from  no  earthly  sun,  but  from  the  throne  whereon  sat 
the  Everlasting  Glory,  its  tinted  hues  contrasting  the 
beauty  of  grace  with  the  coldness  of  nature.  The 
faces  which  looked  down  from  lofty  clerestory  were 
no  figures  cut  in  stones,  but  the  spirits  of  the  holy  ones 
who  from  the  highest  heaven  look  back  to  the  beloved 
friends  of  earth ;  those  upon  the  windows,  of  angel- 
minstrels,  of  the  King's  messengers.  The  imagination, 
subdued  and  taught  by  the  earthly  temple,  read  therein 
the  evangelical  lessons  of  Christ.  There  was  cast  from 
the  chancel-screen  upon  the  nave  the  shadow  of  the  cross 
beneath  which  all  must  pass  who  would  enter  the  holy 
place.  There  were  the  seats  around  the  altar,  recalling 
the  vision  of  the  exile  of  Patmos.  The  orient  rays  rest- 
ing upon  the  sacred  place  where  in  hallowed  sacrament 
lay  the  body  of  the  Lord  spoke  of  the  rainbow-circled 
throne  where  he  sits  crowned  above  all  the  kings  of  the 
earth.  And,  while  the  thoughtful  soul  was  thus  exalted 
to  the  higher  world,  there  came  the  recollection  that  be- 
neath this  magnificence  and  glory  was  the  silent  crypt 
into  which  the  flesh  must  enter,  but  from  which  the 
God  of  power  shall  bring  back  his  own.  These  things, 
wrought  so  wonderfully  by  art,  could  not  fail  to  touch 
even  the  man  whose  brain  had  devised  and  whose  hand 
had  executed.  They  educated  and  made  nobler  and 


THE  PILGRIMAGE    TO   CANTERBURY. 

better  the  mind,  and  taught  the  world  that  "  the  King's 
daughter  is  all-glorious  within;  her  clothing  is  of 
wrought  gold." 

The  devout  Christian  of  the  present  day  will  not 
think  that  buildings  of  this  sublime  character  are  the 
webs  which  superstition  weaves  around  the  soul  and 
which  time  hardens  into  fetters  of  iron,  but  he  will  see 
in  them  signs  of  mystic  meaning,  the  fosterers  of  devo- 
tion, the  interpreters  of  doctrine,  the  foreshadowings  of 
heaven.  They  have  served  to  mould  his  and  his  fathers' 
religion.  They  have  aided  his  imagination  and  strength- 
ened his  affection.  They  have  taught  him  that  essential 
virtue  of  all  religion,  reverence.  They  have  given  him 
suggestions  which  have  helped  him  heavenward  and  led 
him  farther  into  the  mysteries  of  God.  The  triumphs 
of  Christian  architecture,  the  grace  and  the  charm  which 
adorn  the  outer  temple,  must  at  least  speak  to  him  of 
that  integrity  of  purpose  and  that  symmetry  of  charac- 
ter which  should  beautify  the  heart  wherein  the  Holy 
Ghost  is  pleased  to  dwell. 

The  same  magnificence  and  symbolism  that  adorned 
the  buildings  extended  themselves  to  the  services. 
Doubtless  the  people  loved  ornate  display,  but  there 
was  a  far  deeper  feeling  than  that.  They  may  have 
gazed  with  wonder  and  with  fear  upon  the  mystic  sanc- 
tuary where,  amid  the  clouds  of  incense,  white-robed 
choir  and  blaze  of  candles,  the  priest,  arrayed  in  gor- 
geous vestments,  consecrated  the  sacred  Host,  but  they 
were  in  hearty  sympathy  and  doubted  nothing.  They 
bowed  with  deepest  reverence  as  the  procession  of  priests 
and  monks  and  singers,  bearing  cross  and  banner,  holy 
relic  or  mysterious  sacrament,  passed  by,  reminding 


232  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

them  of  man's  pilgrimage  through  this  world.  The 
organ  sent  its  music  echoing  through  the  aisles,  now  in 
subdued  strains  of  hushed  supplication,  now  in  thunder- 
ing peals  of  glad  praise,  and  with  hallowed  chant  and 
well-sung  anthem  moved  and  softened  the  roughest 
nature  and  made  the  weary  heart  long  to  sing  its 
song  and  mingle  its  voice  with  the  great  multitude 
above.  Nor  were  these  services  rare  things :  they 
came  daily,  and  many  times  a  day.  The  churches  were 
ever  open,  the  lamp  before  the  altar  was  ever  burning. 
At  no  time,  day  or  night,  was  silent  the  voice  of  prayer 
for  the  Church's  safety,  the  nation's  welfare,  the  pres- 
ervation of  travellers,  the  conversion  of  the  heathen 
or  the  everlasting  rest  of  the  departed.  In  the  monas- 
teries the  twenty-four  hours  were  one  round  of  devotion. 
Lauds,  prime,  tierce,  sext,  nones  and  compline  were  sung 
in  every  religious  house  in  the  land.  At  daybreak  ma- 
tins, at  sunset  evensong,  brought  rough  hind  and  belted 
knight,  rustic  maiden  and  high-born  lady,  to  their  beads 
and  their  meditation.  Ever  and  anon  there  broke  upon 
the  air  the  sweet  melody  of  the  murmuring  chimes,  tell- 
ing of  joy  and  gladness,  or  perchance  the  heavy,  sad  tone 
of  the  passing-bell,  speaking  of  mortality  and  of  the  duty 
to  pray  for  the  dying.  And  even  now,  in  these  days  of 
hurry  and  faithlessness,  a  sweet  restfulness  and  a  gentle 
awe  steal  upon  us  when,  with  the  door  closed  upon  the 
outer  world,  we  stand  within  the  ancient  sanctuary.  A 
holy  peace  falls  upon  the  soul,  the  Divine  Presence  is 
felt,  the  knee  bends  and  the  heart  in  joyous  emotion 
pours  itself  out  to  Him  whom  we  may  have  sought  in 
the  world  in  fields  and  in  gardens,  but  have  found  only 
in  his  temple. 


THE  PILGRIMAGE    TO   CANTERBURY.  233 

Perhaps  the  highest  inspiration  which  an  edifice  full 
of  beauty  and  luxuriant  in  symbolic  art  can  give  is  to  be 
had  in  the  calm,  moonlit  eventide.  As  the  pale  beams 
fall  upon  its  walls,  shading  the  outline  of  tower,  pinna- 
cle, nave  and  chancel  and  dimly  realizing  the  tracery  of 
the  windows,  the  carved  gargoyles  and  the  arched  door- 
way, the  imagination  sits  upon  Fancy's  throne  and  be- 
gins its  happy  revellings.  There  are  suggestions  that 
the  soul  loves  to  encourage,  thoughts  that  come  to  one 
like  dreamy  music  in  the  gloaming.  The  silence  of  the 
place  reminds  one  of  the  mysterious  stillness  into  which 
all  things  living  must  enter.  Not  now,  as  in  earlier  hours, 
does  the  sound  of  chanting  voices  fall  upon  the  ear  like 
the  roll  of  wave-floods  on  the  beach ;  no  brightness 
flows  in  streams  of  liquid  beauty  through  the  antique 
windows  ;  no  sign  is  there  of  the  great  world,  so  noisy 
in  its  bustle,  so  troubled  in  its  life.  There  comes  no 
melody  of  murmuring  chimes,  telling  of  joy  and  glad- 
ness, and  no  sad  tone  of  passing-bell,  speaking  of  mor- 
tality and  of  the  duty  to  pray  for  the  dying.  The  scene 
is  impressively  unearthly.  In  the  deep  shadows  min- 
gling with  the  soft  light  you  see  the  mysteries  which  are 
ever  and  anon  thrown  across  the  gospel-page — mysteries 
which  we  cannot  fathom,  and  would  not  if  we  could. 
As  you  turn  away  you  realize  the  grace  and  the  power 
of  the  system  which  demands  such  a  tribute  of  beauty, 
you  gain  an  insight  into  the  spirit  of  symbolism,  and 
more  than  ever  the  fact  of  religion  and  the  ideal  of 
Christianity  impress  themselves  upon  you. 

Nor  are  the  associations  of  Christian  buildings  less 
calculated  to  deepen  and  to  strengthen  the  religious 
spirit.  The  comparative  changelessness  of  the  building 


234  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

helps  to  this  end.  While  things  around  are  passing 
away,  while  generation  follows  generation  and  the  sea- 
sons run  their  courses,  these  sacred  walls  remind  us  of 
the  permanence  and  the  stability  of  religion.  Sunday 
after  Sunday,  year  after  year,  the  eye  rests  upon  the 
same  hallowed  surroundings  and  the  beating  heart  is 
hushed  in  the  same  solemn  stillness.  Here  worshipped 
others  of  our  race — men  and  women  who  have  long 
since  passed  into  the  Eternal  Presence.  Here  hymn  was 
sung  and  prayer  offered  long,  long  ago,  as  to-day.  Here, 
now  as  then,  the  echoes  of  the  gospel  die  amid  the 
sweeping  arches  and  within  the  dark  bosom  of  the 
groined  roof.  It  is  the  same  as  ever.  And  in  olden 
time,  when  the  dead  were  laid  to  rest,  sometimes  within 
the  consecrated  building,  sometimes  in  the  yard  around 
it,  and  sculptured  monuments  and  jewelled  shrines  com- 
memorated departed  worth  and  grandeur,  there  was  that 
which  brought  home  very  closely  the  fact  of  mortality 
and  the  doctrine  of  the  communion  of  saints.  They  who 
lay  in  the  fast-closed  vaults  or  in  the  green-clad  graves 
were  the  links  which  bound  not  only  the  present  to  the 
past,  but  also  earth  to  heaven.  The  rudest  spirit  was 
hushed  when  in  a  place  hallowed  by  associations  such 
as  these;  the  most  irreverent  could  not  but  bow  the 
head  when  walking  along  aisles  which  once  had  been 
trodden  by  those  whose  ashes  were  mouldering  beneath 
the  lettered  pavement.  Nor  could  the  thoughtful  man 
think  of  the  time  when  he  would  be  borne  within  the 
temple,  or  look  upon  the  spot  where  he  would  be  laid  to 
rest,  without  tender  emotion — emotion  which  could  be 
stilled  only  when  the  eye  fell  upon  some  object  which 
taught  that  Jesus  is  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life. 


THE  PILGRIMAGE    TO   CANTERBURY.  235 

It  is  impossible  to  wander  in  such  an  Eden  of  pleas- 
ant delights  as  I  have  sought  to  suggest  here  in  the  very- 
shadow  of  Canterbury  without  thinking  of  the  times  in 
which  lived  the  men  who  wrought  these  structures.  It 
was  not  the  building  only,  but  everything  else,  that 
marked  the  reality  of  those  ages  9f  faith  and  devotion. 
Maxims  such  as  these  were  enjoined  upon  all  Christian 
men :  "  Arise  early,  serve  God  devoutly  and  the  world 
busily ;  do  thy  work  wisely,  give  thine  alms  secretly, 
and  go  by  the  way  sadly."  Letters  of  those  days  are 
interesting  for  the  deep  reverential  spirit  of  their  greet- 
ing— perhaps  too  often  formal,  but  still  a  quaint,  sweet 
form.  The  knight  was  charged  by  the  dignity  of  his 
order  to  uphold  the  rights  of  maidens  and  of  widows, 
truly  to  hold  his  promise  to  his  friend  and  his  foe,  to 
honor  his  father  and  his  mother,  to  do  no  harm  to  the 
poor,  but  to  be  merciful  and  to  hold  with  the  sacrifice 
of  the  great  God  of  heaven.  Nor  were  the  clergy  ig- 
norant either  of  necessary  doctrinal  truth  or  of  their 
duty  to  the  people.  They  taught  the  people  at  least  the 
stories  and  general  truths  of  Scripture,  and  undoubtedly 
sought,  according  to  the  light  they  had,  the  good  of  the 
Church  and  the  nation.  In  a  period  strongly  marked 
by  caste  they  moved  between  the  court  and  the  cabin, 
from  the  mansion  of  the  peer  to  the  mud  hut  of  the 
peasant,  and  endeavored  to  soften  the  pride  of  the  one 
and  to  better  the  hard  lot  of  the  other,  and  to  bind  all 
together  in  a  true  Christian  brotherhood.  The  monks, 
too,  were  far  from  deserving  that  wholesale  condemna- 
tion which  later  times  passed  upon  them.  Early  mem- 
bers of  their  orders  had  gone  out  into  the  wilderness  and 
the  barren  places,  far  away  from  the  haunts  of  men, 


236  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

where  they  might  worship  God  in  peace  and  live  in 
solitude.  The  richest  and  the  most  beautiful  of  modern 
abbey-lands  had  originally  been  desolate,  uninhabited 
and  worthless.  In  some  deep  sequestered  glen,  the 
home  of  the  wild  boar,  the  bittern  and  the  crane,  or  be- 
side the  waters  of  some  almost  unknown  stream,  or  by 
the  shore  of  the  great,  lonely  ocean  itself,  they  built  their 
house  and  their  sanctuary,  and  lived  roughly  and  rudely 
by  the  labors  of  their  hands.  Here  they  gradually  gath- 
ered around  them  a  village  of  artisans  and  laborers,  who 
depended  upon  them  for  support  and  protection.  The 
most  liberal  hospitality  was  given  to  all  who  needed  it. 
The  Fathers  cared  for  the  poor  and  the  sick,  administered 
justice  and  kept  good  order  on  their  estates,  and  sup- 
plied the  neighboring  villages  with  the  ministrations  of 
religion. 


CHAPTER  X. 

rtje  OTartjefcral. 

"  I  lift  mine  eyes,  and  all  the  windows  blaze 
With  forms  of  saints  and  holy  men  who  died, 
Here  martyred  and  hereafter  glorified." 

WE  enter  the  sacred  edifice  by  the  south-western  door 
— a  porch  built  by  Thomas  Chillenden,  prior  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  covered  with  niches 
in  which  are  placed  famous  characters  connected  with 
the  history  of  Canterbury.  A  scene  of  splendor  bursts 
upon  the  vision — a  prelude,  as  it  were,  to  other  scenes 
of  greater  glory  and  of  more  soul-stirring  emotion. 
The  view  up  the  nave  toward  the  east  is  enhanced  by 
the  cleanness  of  pillars,  roof  and  walls.  The  white  stone 
has  not  been  darkened  by  smoke  or  by  age,  though  four 
centuries  have  passed  since  Archbishop  Chicheley  fin- 
ished the  work.  The  lofty  pillars,  massive  and  exact, 
appear  in  their  long  avenue  as  giant  trees  of  the  forest, 
supporting  arches  of  noble  sweep,  the  triforium  and 
clerestory  of  delicate  detail  and  the  roof  which  bewilders 
with  its  distance.  Some  have  thought  that  the  steps 
leading  up  into  the  choir  detract  from  the  effect ;  it  is 
only  for  a  moment.  The  design  of  the  building  as  a 
whole  dawns  upon  the  mind,  the  magnitude  of  the  nave 
and  aisles  becomes  every  moment  more  impressive ;  and 
if  disappointment  there  were,  it  speedily  passes  away  in 

237 


238  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

wondering  surprise  at  the  daring  splendor  of  the  art  and 
the  completeness  of  the  work.  If  from  the  choir  beyond 
the  great  stone  screen  the  melody  of  pealing  organ  or 
chanting  boys  steals  echoing  down  the  church,  emotions 
are  awakened  which  subdue  the  soul  and  suggest  ex- 
alted things.  Up  the  steps  we  pass,  under  the  central 
tower — a  beautiful  structure  open  to  the  top  and  worthy 
of  much  attention.  In  front  is  the  entrance  to  the  choir, 
to  the  left  the  transept  in  which  St.  Thomas  of  Can- 
terbury was  murdered,  and  to  the  right  the  south-west 
transept,  leading  out  of  which  is  St.  Michael's  or  the 
Warriors'  Chapel.  In  this  chapel,  among  other  tombs, 
is  one,  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  church,  said  to  con- 
tain the  body  of  Archbishop  Langton.  As  a  proof  of 
the  high  esteem  with  which  the  people  regarded  the 
hero  of  the  Magna  Carta,  when  this  part  of  the  building 
was  erected  and  the  line  of  the  wall  fell  exactly  upon 
his  grave  in  the  cemetery  the  architect  built  over  it  an 
arch  rather  than  disturb  remains  so  revered.  It  is  doubt- 
ful, however,  whether  the  archbishop  was  buried  here  at 
all.  A  story  runs  that  when  young  he  and  a  village 
maiden  were  lovers,  but  for  some  cause  or  other  they 
were  separated ;  he  became  a  churchman,  she  a  nun.  In 
time  he  reached  the  rank  of  archbishop,  and  she  that  of 
abbess.  Then  they  met  again,  and  continued  in  intimate 
friendship  till  they  died,  when  they  were  buried  side  by 
side  in  a  country  churchyard  a  few  miles  away.  Whether 
this  be  legend  or  no,  certain  it  is  that  her  tomb  has  been 
identified  and  beside  her  lies  a  man.  Somehow  or  other, 
this  story  of  love  draws  us  closer  to  the  great  cardinal 
than  even  that  which  he  did  at  Runnymede.  In  this 
same  chapel  is  a  monument  of  marble  and  alabaster, 


IN  THE   CATHEDRAL.  239 

very  fine  to  look  upon,  to  the  memory  of  Lady  Marga- 
ret Holland  and  her  two  husbands.  She  lies  in  full- 
length  effigy  between  her  two  lords — one,  the  earl  of 
Somerset,  who  died  1410;  the  other,  the  duke  of  Clar- 
ence, who  died  1420.  She  died  in  1440.  At  their  feet, 
as  usual,  animals  are  sculptured.  These  generally  in- 
dicate the  characteristic  of  the  deceased ;  e.  g.,  an  eagle, 
courage ;  a  hound,  fleetness ;  and  a  dog,  fidelity. 

The  choir  is  contained  between  the  pillars  dividing  it 
from  its  aisles  on  either  side ;  here,  as  in  the  holy  place, 
service  is  daily  held.  Another  flight  of  steps  leads  up 
into  the  presbytery  ;  another,  to  the  altar  rails ;  and  still 
another,  to  the  jasper  pavement  on  which  stands  the 
high  altar.  Several  tombs  of  archbishops  are  on  both 
sides  of  the  presbytery ;  that  to  Archbishop  Chicheley, 
on  the  north  side,  is  too  remarkable  to  be  passed  by. 
Beneath  a  rich  canopy  of  carved  stone-work,  supported 
by  exquisitely  sculptured  pillars,  in  the  niches  of  which 
are  small  elegant  statues  of  white  marble,  rests  the  body 
of  the  prelate  who  built  the  nave.  The  monument  was 
erected  in  his  lifetime,  and  he  left  a  large  endowment  to 
All  Souls'  College  at  Oxford  to  keep  it  in  repair.  On 
an  upper,  altar-shaped  slab  he  lies  in  effigy,  clothed  in 
his  splendid  pontifical  robes,  so  well  done  as  to  seem 
almost  living.  Angels  support  his  head,  and  at  his  feet 
are  two  monks  holding  open  books.  Underneath,  on  an- 
other slab,  lies  the  effigy  of  a  skeleton  partly  shrouded, 
and  also  so  well  done  as  to  appear  like  actual  death. 
The  contrast  is  startling — the  archbishop  in  his  glory, 
and  the  archbishop  in  his  shame. 

We  pass  back  again  to  the  steps  under  the  tower  and 
turn  to  the  north-wfsTlransept — the  place  of  the  martyr- 
is 


24O  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

dom.  It  has  been  changed  since  that  dark  December 
evening,  seven  hundred  years  ago,  when  was  shed  the 
blood  which  made  it  sacred  for  ever.  Against  the  north 
walls  are  the  tombs  of  Archbishops  Warham  and  Peck- 
ham;  the  latter,  of  bog-oak,  is  in  good  preservation, 
though  six  hundred  years  old.  To  the  east  is  the 
Dean's  Chapel,  formerly  called  the  Lady  Chapel,  in 
which  are  several  monuments  to  the  deans  and  some 
books  on  which  the  titles  have  been  placed,  not  on  the 
backs,  but  on  the  edges  of  the  opening  leaves.  These, 
however,  are  as  nothing  beside  the  interest  of  the  mar- 
tyrdom itself.  The  story  is  too  well  known  to  need 
repeating.  Suffice  it  is  to  say  that  the  memory  of  the 
man  who  dared  to  die  for  rights  which  he  deemed  sa- 
cred was  precious  in  the  hearts  of  Englishmen  from  the 
day  his  blood  was  poured  out  on  the  cold  stones  till  the 
day  when  a  king  coveted  the  treasures  which  the  ages 
had  heaped  upon  his  shrine.  Nor  has  the  spirit  of  ad- 
miration and  of  justice  so  passed  away  that  none  are 
left  to  think  of  him  with  honor,  and  even  with  love. 
He  fell  pierced  with  many  wounds.  In  the  darkening 
twilight  the  murderers  escaped;  and  when  the  news 
spread  through  the  city,  the  townspeople  ran  to  the 
cathedral.  The  glimmering  torches  showed  them  the 
body  of  the  archbishop  lying  in  his  gore  before  the 
altar.  They  began  to  weep,  and,  while  some  kissed  his 
hands  and  his  feet,  others  dipped  linen  in  the  blood  with 
which  the  pavement  was  covered.  Ere  long  the  trem- 
bling monks  buried  the  body  in  the  crypt.  The  royal 
proclamation  to  the  contrary  was  useless :  Becket  was 
a  martyr  and  a  saint  from  that  very  night.  If  Henry 
feared  him  when  living,  he  had  much  more  cause  to 


IN  THE   CATHEDRAL.  24! 

fear  him  when  dead.  The  thunderstorm  which  burst 
upon  the  city  as  the  murderers  fled  was  at  once  the 
sign  of  Heaven's  anger  and  the  awakening  of  an  en- 
thusiasm which  lived  for  centuries.  Miracles  were 
wrought  at  the  tomb;  pilgrimages  became  popular. 
An  altar  was  erected  upon  the  spot  of  the  martyrdom, 
and  here  the  greatest  of  the  Plantagenet  kings  married 
—.Queen  Margaret.  Edward  IV.  gave  the  great  window 
of  the  transept,  wondrous  in  workmanship,  wherein 
were  seven  glorious  appearances  of  the  Blessed  Vir- 
gin and  St.  Thomas  himself  fully  robed  and  mitred. 
This  was  mostly  destroyed  by  a  Puritan  iconoclast. 

From  the  martyrdom  we  proceed  along  the  north 
aisle  of  the  choir,  past  the  north-east  transept  and  the 
chapel  of  St.  Andrew,  beyond  which  is  the  treasury,  up 
the  steps  by  which  the  pilgrims  went,  into  the  chapel  of 
the  Holy  Trinity.  This  is  immediately  beyond  the  high 
altar,  and  here,  in  the  highest  and  most  beautiful  part 
of  the  cathedral,  was  the  shrine  of  St.  Thomas.  The  tile 
pavement  against  the  west  screen  was  given  by  the  Cru- 
saders ;  it  remains,  but  every  vestige  of  the  shrine  is  re- 
moved. An  evidence  of  the  multitudes  who  visited  it 
is  in  the  worn  stones :  the  bare  knees  of  pilgrims  hol- 
lowed out  a  semicircle  before  the  saint.  Close  by  is 
the  tomb  of  the  Black  Prince,  and  hanging  aloft  are  the 
helmet,  the  coat  and  the  gauntlets  which  he  wore  at  the 
battle  of  Crecy,  half  a  millennium  ago,  his  popularity 
attested  in  his  being  buried  near  the  most  sacred  spot  in 
England.  Henry  IV.  with  his  queen,  Joan  of  Navarre,  is 
also  buried  there.  Beyond  this  chapel  is  the  corona,  the 
most  eastern  part  of  the  cathedral.  Here  is  the  plain 
tomb  of  Cardinal  Pole,  the  last  English  archbishop  who 


242  THE  HEART  OF  MERKIE   ENGLAND. 

recognized  the  papal  supremacy.  In  the  ancient  black 
marble  chair  have  been  enthroned  the  rulers  of  Eng- 
land's primatial  see,  the  patriarchs  of  English  Christen- 
dom. Thoughts  press  fast  upon  one  another  in  such  a 
place,  but  even  as  the  sunlight  outshines  the  stars  the  sur- 
rounding vision  blots  them  out.  Look  down  the  mighty 
and  magnificent  edifice  raised  to  the  glory  of  almighty 
God  and  through  long  centuries  a  centre  of  the  nation's 
life.  No  description  can  convey  the  impression  of  that 
vista;  no  picture  or  poem  can  impart  the  fact  of  its 
splendor.  The  vastness  of  the  structure  and  the  beauty 
of  the  conception  overawe  the  mind.  Through  the 
windows,  marvellous  in  tracery  and  rich'  in  colored 
glass,  falls  the  soft  and  tinted  light,  its  warmth  and  love- 
liness of  hue  suggesting  the  contrast  between  the  outer 
and  the  inner  radiance,  between  the  realm  of  grace  and 
the  region  of  nature.  The  long  lines  of  sculptured  shafts 
rise  with  noble  dignity  and  impressive  stateliness  to  sup- 
port the  lofty  and  majestic  arches.  The  eye  passes  down 
through  the  Trinity  Chapel,  where  once  thousands  and 
tens  of  thousands  knelt  before  the  hallowed  shrine  of 
the  martyr;  on  beyond  the  high  altar  and  the  presby- 
tery into  the  choir,  where  holy  service  is  chanted  at  the 
rising  and  the  setting  of  every  sun ;  and  farther  on,  be- 
yond the  richly-finished  screen,  into  the  great  and 
glorious  nave — a  very  forest  of  noblest  architectural 
splendor,  where  like  tall  and  mighty  trees  set  in  a  royal 
avenue  of  wide-arching  beauty  pillar  after  pillar  rises 
and  sends  aloft  its  moulded  branches  into  the  groined 
and  distant  roof,  glory  upon  glory,  strength  upon 
strength,  as  though  the  builders,  filled  with  divinest 
power,  sought  to  outdo  the  work  of  Nature,  and  to 


IN  THE   CATHEDRAL.  243 

show  to  the  Lord  of  all  that  human  hearts  and  human 
hands  could  do  that  which  the  rocks  and  the  forests,  the 
sun  and  the  frost,  the  shifting  winds  and  the  flowing 
waters,  could  not  do.  In  the  mellowed  radiance  fading 
in  the  misty  distance,  and  in  the  holy  awfulness  of  the 
voice  of  God  speaking  through  man  in  the  lines  of  the 
poem  wrought  in  stone,  the  mysterious  sweetness  of  the 
Divine  Presence  makes  itself  felt.  Heaven  may  have 
that  which  is  grander,  more  suggestive,  richer  in  form 
and  color  and  more  truly  an  expression  of  all  that  the 
mind  conceives  to  be  beautiful  and  sublime,  but  earth  has 
not.  The  King's  daughter  is  all-glorious  within,  and 
the  great  Anglican  communion  wants  no  grander  centre, 
no  nobler  mother-church. 

The  rich,  delicate  carving,  the  simplicity  and  dignity, 
the  costliness  and  rareness  of  material,  the  most  thought- 
ful, consummate  poetic  and  religious  art,  show  that  the 
best  of  all  has  been  given  to  the  Lord  of  glory.  But 
much  of  what  was  once  here  has  been  taken  away. 
The  wealth  of  gold  and  of  precious  stones  that  once 
adorned  the  sanctuary  and  the  shrine  was  stolen  to  re- 
plenish the  exchequer  of  Henry  VIII.  Even  the  jewels 
about  the  head  of  the  Black  Prince  were  dug  out  and 
appropriated.  Never  were  the  desires  for  the  purity  of 
the  faith  and  the  wealth  of  the  Church  more  curiously 
blended  than  in  that  age,  and  no  one  seems  able  to  say 
which  was  greater — the  hatred  of  the  men  of  those 
times  for  the  clergy  or  their  love  for  the  lands  of  the 
Church.  Beautiful  as  Canterbury  Cathedral  is,  there 
comes  upon  one  the  feeling  that  it  has  been  stripped  of 
its  richest  glories  and  is  not  what  it  was  in  the  first  days 
of  the  sixteenth  century. 


244  THE   HEART  OF  M ERR  IE  ENGLAND. 

There  is  little  difficulty,  standing  here  in  Becket's 
Crown,  in  repeopling  the  place  with  the  men  of  earlier 
days.  The  picture  of  pilgrims  walking  barefoot  or 
crawling  on  naked  knee  up  the  stone  steps  in  the  north 
aisle  to  the  shrine  of  St.  Thomas  soon  becomes  vivid. 
They  brought  their  offerings  and  uttered  their  prayers  to 
him  who  they  hoped  would  intercede  for  them  before  the 
throne  of  God.  Sometimes  a  nobler  penitent  came — a 
prince  with  a  rich  retinue  and  with  costly  gifts.  Kings 
and  emperors  worshipped  there,  people  from  all  parts  of 
England,  and  even  from  the  lands  beyond  the  seas.  As 
an  illustration  of  the  popularity  of  this  pilgrimage,  we 
may  note  that  in  the  fifteen  days'  jubilee  of  1420  no  less 
than  a  hundred  thousand  persons  knelt  before  the  glori- 
ous shrine  of  St.  Thomas,  and  the  offerings  in  money 
made  that  year  amounted  to  nearly  six  hundred  pounds 
— a  sum  probably  equal  to  about  eighteen  thousand 
pounds  at  this  present  day.  Miracles  were  wrought 
there,  and  revelations  made.  Some  of  the  windows, 
dating  from  the  thirteenth  century,  remain,  and  are  un- 
rivalled both  for  delicacy  and  harmony  of  color  and  for 
accurate  execution  of  design. 

The  central  thought  of  Canterbury  is  undoubtedly 
the  martyr,  and  yet  the  building  is  full  of  the  associa- 
tions of  other  men  who  helped  to  make  England  what 
she  is  and  whose  names  are  enrolled  in  the  annals  of  her 
fame.  They  looked  upon  these  very  walls  and  trod  these 
very  stones.  Many  of  the  archbishops  are  buried  here, 
but  only  one  king,  and  he  has  a  chantry  on  the  north 
side  of  the  Trinity  Chapel. 

We  wander  down  the  south  steps  and  look  into  the 
chapel  of  St.  Anselm,  in  the  entrance  of  which  is  the 


IN  THE   CATHEDRAL.  245 

tomb  of  Archbishop  Mepham,  and  from  which  a  pleasing 
glimpse  of  the  choir  presents  itself.  Hence  we  find  our 
way  across  the  building  to  the  entrance  to  the  crypt,  and 
on  descending  we  first  visit  the  Lady  Chapel — St.  Mary's 
of  the  Undercroft.  This  is  a  singularly  attractive  spot. 
It  is  directly  under  the  high  altar  in  the  cathedral,  and  is 
divided  off  by  stone  screens  of  fine  workmanship.  It 
was  once  rich  in  jewels  and  in  gold ;  gold,  Erasmus 
said,  was  the  meanest  thing  about  the  place.  Traces  of 
the  exquisite  decorations  remain.  Figures,  symbols  and 
stars  cover  the  vaulted  roof.  When  lighted  with  lamps 
and  tapers,  the  effect  must  have  been  great.  Here  ser- 
vice never  ceased,  day  nor  night.  A  curious  shrine, 
down  in  the  deep  body  of  the  church,  symbolical  of  the 
affection  with  which  men  regarded  her  whom  all  gen- 
erations call  blessed.  Beyond  this  chapel  is  the  place 
where  Becket's  body  lay  for  the  first  fifty  years  after  his 
martyrdom.  Here  is  the  spot  where  Henry  did  penance 
and  submitted  his  back  to  the  scourge  of  the  monks. 
Not  far  off  is  the  tomb  of  Archbishop  Morton,  who  re- 
stored the  chapel  of  Our  Lady.  In  the  work  about  this 
tomb  is  an  illustration  of  the  rebus-play  of  the  old  sculp- 
tors. There  are  figures  of  a  hawk  and  of  a  tun,  the  former 
lighting  upon  the  latter.  The  arch  is  also  adorned  with 
roses,  each  surmounted  with  a  crown.  Of  these  the  last 
one  is  cramped  and  imperfect,  the  artist  evidently  having 
tired  of  his  work.  In  St.  Gabriel's  Chapel  are  some 
curious  figures  of  animal-minstrels  wrought  around  the 
capital  of  the  central  column — goats,  etc.,  playing  horns 
and  flutes.  The  mural  paintings  are  not  obliterated ;  fig- 
ures of  angels  and  of  saints  are  plainly  visible.  In  the 
middle,  over  where  the  altar  formerly  stood,  is  a  repre- 


246  THE   HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

sentation  of  Christ,  singular  in  the  right  hand  pointing 
downward.  The  blue-and-gold  illuminations  in  the 
vaulting  are  also  visible.  This  chapel  was  the  work  of 
a  genius,  and  is  not  excelled  by  other  work  of  the  time, 
either  in  the  cathedral  or  elsewhere.  Another  interest- 
ing feature  of  the  crypt  is  the  little  French  church,  the 
home  of  refugees  nestling  under  the  protection  of  the 
great  cathedral.  Queen  Elizabeth  extended  this  hospi- 
tality, and  from  then  to  now  the  organization  has  held 
its  own.  It  is  not  a  part  of  the  Anglican  Church,  but 
its  pastor  receives  Anglican  orders. 

Days  could  be  spent  in  this  wonderful  cathedral  with- 
out exhausting  its  treasures  of  art  and  of  association. 
Happy  are  they  whose  duty  lies  within  its  sacred  walls 
and  whose  life  is  spent  in  its  calm,  heavenly  atmosphere. 
They  who  visit  have  for  ever  recollections  to  sweeten 
and  brighten  the  after-days.  As  we  pass  out  of  the 
church  into  the  cloisters  the  white-robed  procession 
winds  from  the  chapel  of  St.  Andrew  through  the  dark 
aisle  into  the  choir,  and  ere  we  look  for  the  last  time 
upon  the  vision  of  beauty,  the  storied  windows,  the  shafts 
crowned  with  the  circlets  of  vine  and  acanthus  leafage, 
the  silent  tombs,  the  vast  spaces  of  nave  and  aisle,  there 
come  the  voices  of  singing  choristers,  and  in  the  mur- 
muring melody  of  evensong,  sweeping  in  gentle  waves 
of  undulating  sweetness,  hope  rises  upon  the  wings  of 
hallowed  imagination  and  suggests  the  glories  of  the 
worship  of  the  land  which  is  very  far  off. 

The  cloisters  are  full  of  architectural  and  heraldic  in- 
terest. In  the  groined  roof  are  the  armorial  bearings 
of  benefactors  of  the  church,  and,  though  sadly  muti- 
lated, some  Romanesque  arches,  trefoil- headed  arcades 


IN  THE   CATHEDRAL.  247 

and  ribbed  vaulting  indicate  the  former  splendor  of  the 
monks'  walk.  Here  the  brethren  spent  some  of  their 
time  in  meditation,  amusement  and  exercise,  the  bright 
green  earth  being  restful  to  the  eye  and  healthful  for 
both  body  and  soul.  On  the  eastern  side  is  the  chap- 
ter- or  sermon-house,  a  noble  structure  of  several  styles, 
from  Early  English  to  Perpendicular.  Some  traces  of 
the  former  glory  remain — the  coloring  and  the  enam- 
elled work  in  the  canopies  of  the  raised  stalls  at  the 
east  end.  Around  the  hall  are  the  stone  seats  on  which 
the  brethren  sat  during  chapter,  the  abbot's  or  prior's 
throne  being  conspicuous  for  its  higher  elevation  and 
its  greater  finish.  Here  the  community  met  to  consult 
about  the  affairs  of  the  church  and  the  monastery,  for 
Canterbury  was  a  Benedictine  foundation.  The  young- 
est brother  first  gave  his  voice  and  vote,  and  so  on,  ac- 
cording to  age,  till  the  most  ancient  spoke,  and  then  the 
prior  uttered  sentences  and  censures  and  penances  and 
scourgings  were  imposed,  the  delinquent  standing  out 
in  the  open  space  to  receive  punishment,  perhaps  to 
turn  his  back  to  the  whip  of  the  penitentiary.  Sermons 
and  lectures  were  given  from  the  pulpit  in  the  centre ; 
no  one  then  thought  of  using  the  church,  so  utterly 
unadapted  for  the  purpose,  for  preaching.  A  light 
burned  perpetually  in  this  place,  and  the  chapter  met 
every  morning.  Sometimes  a  novice  received  the  cowl 
or  an  officer  was  appointed ;  perchance  a  brother  that 
night  deceased  was  carried  in  on  his  blue  bed  with  a 
chalice  on  his  breast,  and  then  with  solemn  dirge  and 
requiem  taken  away  to  his  long  home.  At  the  close  of 
the  meeting  a  wooden  tablet  was  struck,  and  in  the  dull 
sounds  the  brethren  were  reminded  of  man's  painful  life, 


248  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

his  sad  pilgrimage  and  his  sure  death.  No  longer,  how- 
ever, are  these  things  done.  Times  have  changed ;  the 
monks  are  gone.  One  of  the  most  interesting  events 
of  the  year  is  the  "  speech-day "  of  King's  School. 
Then  the  beautiful  building  is  filled  with  scholars  and 
their  friends,  addresses  are  made  and  prizes  presented, 
ladies,  gowned  masters  and  scarlet-robed  doctors  look 
with  interest  and  admiration  upon  the  happy  faces  be- 
fore them,  and  one  wonders  what  the  old  monks  would 
think  were  they  in  slow  and  silent  procession  to  enter 
upon  the  scene. 

Near  to  the  chapter-door  is  the  way,  through  walls 
fourteen  feet  thick,  into  the  slype.  Here,  when  a  broth- 
er lay  dying,  the  hollow  sound  of  the  clapper  called  his 
fellows  to  his  bedside  in  the  infirmary.  They  watched 
beside  him,  prayed  with  him  and  for  him ;  the  children 
of  the  almonry — sweet-voiced  choristers — sang  to  him 
from  the  psalms  of  David ;  and  when  he  passed  away, 
he  was  gently  and  lovingly  carried  to  join  the  silent 
brotherhood  in  the  green  churchyard. 

We  pass  out  of  the  dark  entry,  and  find  ourselves 
among  buildings  and  remains  of  buildings  which  show 
the  extent  of  this  place  in  olden  times.  In  the  green 
court,  on  one  side  of  which  is  the  deanery,  we  linger  to 
look  upon  some  of  the  exquisite  views  of  the  cathedral. 
The  quiet  charm  can  only  be  suggested;  neither  pen 
nor  pencil  can  do  more.  A  few  steps  farther,  and  we 
are  outside  the  sacred  precincts.  We  wander  around 
the  wall — for  the  cathedral  was  enclosed  and  fortified— 
till  we  get  back  again  to  Mercery  Lane ;  then  through 
High  street  we  proceed  eastward  to  other  historical 
spots. 


IN  THE   CATHEDRAL.  249 

Canterbury  is  full  of  interesting  churches  and  other 
buildings;  two,  however,  are  pre-eminent — St.  Martin's 
church  and  St.  Augustine's  College.  The  former  of 
these  is  in  the  extreme  eastern  part  of  the  city ;  the  lat- 
ter, halfway  between  it  and  the  cathedral.  On  the  way 
out  the  highly-respectable  and  the  highly-dull  character 
of  Canterbury  becomes  more  than  ever  apparent.  One 
of  the  oldest  churches  is  St.  Paul's,  founded  in  the  thir- 
teenth century,  lately  restored,  and  containing  some  in- 
teresting tablets.  In  the  belfry  is  one  to  the  memory  of 
Sir  Edward  Master,  once  lord  mayor  of  London,  and  in 
the  inscription  emphasis  is  laid  upon  the  fact  that  he  was 
the  husband  of  one  wife  and  by  her  the  father  of  twenty 
children.  Farther  on  is  a  long  row  of  low-built  houses 
called  a  hospital  and  founded  by  a  John  Smith  in  1657. 
Farther  still,  leaving  the  great  monastery  on  the  left,  is 
the  little  building  which  may  in  truth  be  called  the  cradle 
of  all  English  Christianity. 

A  simple,  unostentatious  structure  is  this  St.  Martin's, 
rich  in  age  and  in  associations,  but  void  of  architectural 
beauty.  There  are  genuine  bits  of  Roman  work  in  the 
walls,  showing  that  the  more  modern  Norman  work  was 
done  only  in  the  way  of  repairs  and  restoration.  On  the 
whole,  it  is  the  very  building  in  which  St.  Augustine 
celebrated  the  services  of  God  thirteen  hundred  years 
ago,  and  it  was  esteemed  old  then.  There  Christians 
worshipped  in  the  days  of  the  Roman  occupancy  of 
Britain,  and,  though  the  English  pagans  fiercely  swept 
out  of  the  land  the  older  civilization  and  religion,  there 
divine  worship  was  destined  to  be  offered  again  without 
interruption,  even  as  at  this  time. 

The  story  of  St.  Augustine  is  as  well  known  as  it  is 


25O  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

ever  fresh.  When  he  and  his  monks  passed  up  the  way 
from  Ebbsfleet  to  win  the  kingdom  of  Kent  for  their 
Lord,  not  only  were  they  kindly  received  by  Ethelbert, 
but  in  his  queen,  Bertha,  they  found  a  protector  and  in 
St.  Martin's  church  a  home.  This  was  for  a  time  the 
headquarters  of  the  mission;  ere  long  both  king  and 
people  were  converted  to  the  faith,  and  the  land  was 
given  upon  which  was  afterward  built  the  abbey  of  St. 
Peter  and  St.  Paul.  In  a  once  Christian  church  there 
the  king  of  Kent  worshipped  the  gods  of  the  heathen ; 
this  he  changed  into  a  church  again,  and  St.  Augustine 
consecrated  and  dedicated  it  to  St.  Pancras.  When  we 
go  back  to  the  city,  we  will  look  at  the  ruins  of  this  first 
abiding-place  of  the  founders  of  the  Church  of  England. 
St.  Martin's  consists  of  a  nave,  a  chancel  and  a  tower. 
The  entire  length  of  the  building  is  less  than  eighty  feet, 
and  the  chancel  is  nearly  a  yard  longer  than  the  nave. 
The  walls  are  about  twenty-two  inches  thick,  and  are  of 
stone,  rubble  and  Roman  bricks.  The  tower  was  built 
in  the  fourteenth  century  and  is  covered  with  ivy.  In 
the  choir  floor  appears  an  altar-slab  about  eight  feet  long 
and  having  the  usual  stigmata  and  crosses — one  of  the 
few  stone  altars  which  escaped  utter  destruction  in  the 
Reformation.  It  was,  however,  used  as  a  monument, 
and  is  inlaid  with  memorial  brasses.  A  Norman  piscina 
in  the  south  wall,  possibly  of  Saxon  date,  wrought  by 
itinerant  masons  from  the  Continent,  is  said  to  be  the  old- 
est in  England,  and  there  is  an  aumbry  in  the  chancel  of 
the  fifteenth  century.  In  the  chancel  is  also  shown  a  tomb 
said  to  contain  the  remains  of  Queen  Bertha,  but  she  was 
buried  somewhere  in  or  near  the  monastery.  The  font 
is  one  of  the  greatest  objects  of  interest.  Its  age  is  un- 


IN  THE   CATHEDRAL.  2$  I 

known ;  ancient  tradition  affirms  that  in  it  St.  Augustine 
baptized  King  Ethelbert  on  Whitsunday,  597.  In  the 
western  wall,  north  of  the  tower,  is  a  squint  through 
which  penitents  could  see  the  high  altar ;  there  are  also 
near  the  altar  traces  of  the  priest's  door  and  of  the 
lepers'  window. 

The  contrast  between  this  plain,  tiny  edifice  and  the 
grand  and  glorious  cathedral  is  very  great,  even  as  the 
brown  shrivelled  seed  to  the  full-blown  splendor  of  the 
flower.  This  is  really  the  mother-church  of  our  race. 
Through  the  changes  and  the  chances  of  thirteen  cen- 
turies we  look  back  to  the  day  when  within  these  walls 
was  gathered  the  handful  of  men  who  were  to  lay  the 
foundations  of  a  religious  community  that  should  spread 
through  all  the  world  and  become  second  to  none  of 
the  churches  of  Christendom.  Stand  in  the  western 
porch,  in  the  gateway  of  the  ivy-clad  tower,  on  the 
ground  where  once  stood  St.  Augustine,  Queen  Bertha, 
and  many  another  Christian  of  the  distant  ages,  and 
look  upon  the  exquisite  and  inspiriting  landscape.  That 
view  is  a  type  of  the  spiritual  garden  of  the  Lord,  as  re- 
freshing as  it  is  picturesque  and  as  full  of  glory  as  it  is 
rich  in  living  green  and  pleasant  memories.  Under  the 
yew  tree  close  by  lie  the  remains  of  Dean  Alford,  a 
man  of  varied  gifts,  at  once  a  theologian  and  a  poet,  a 
musician,  a  carver  and  a  painter,  a  preacher  and  a  writer 
— more  than  all  else,  a  gentle  and  holy  servant  of  God. 
The  lich-gate  is  a  fine  piece  of  work.  Near  to  it  is  a 
cross  on  the  front  of  which  is  carved  the  name  "  Hew 
Whyte ;"  on  the  back,  "  And  Alys  his  wife."  One  passes 
away  over  sacred  ground  thankful  for  the  mercy  which 
has  suffered  one  to  see  so  holy  a  place. 


252     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

The  abbey  of  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul  was  famous  as 
much  for  the  extent  and  the  magnificence  of  its  buildings 
as  for  the  constant  quarrellings  of  its  members  with  the 
community  at  the  cathedral.  Among  other  causes  of 
contention  was  that  over  the  remains  of  the  deceased 
archbishop.  The  monks  of  Christ  church  wanted  him 
living  and  dead;  the  canons  of  St.  Peter  claimed  his 
body  for  their  own.  Therefore,  whenever  a  prelate  died, 
the  dispute  arose,  till  at  last  the  former  prevailed.  How- 
ever, within  the  porch  of  the  great  church  which  in  time 
was  erected  lies  the  dust  of  St.  Augustine  and  his  six 
immediate  successors ;  but  whereabouts  the  porch  was 
no  one  living  knows.  Some  parts  of  the  building  re- 
main— the  wall  of  the  north  aisle  and  some  bases  of 
columns,  fragments  of  fallen  arches  and  mounds.  The 
old  builders  wrought  well :  a  strong  outer  casing  of  good 
stone,  then  the  interior  filled  with  rubble,  and  finally 
molten  cement,  possibly  near  boiling,  poured  in.  The 
result  was  a  solid  mass  of  unwearing  masonry.  To  the 
east  is  the  only  remaining  arch  of  St.  Pancras  church. 
Many  parts  of  the  monastery  buildings  are  still  standing 
— the  tall  towers,  the  beautiful  gateway  and  some  por- 
tions of  the  dining-hall  and  the  chapel.  The  wealth  and 
the  position  of  the  brotherhood  were  once  great ;  they 
entertained  kings  and  prelates  and  feasted  six  thousand 
guests  at  a  time.  Changes  came,  and  in  the  end  of  the 
fifteenth  century  they  had  scarcely  bread  to  eat. 

Perhaps  this  was  prophetical  of  the  degradation  to 
which  the  place  itself  was  destined  to  fall.  Henry  VIII. 
appropriated  it,  converting  the  grounds  into  a  deer-park 
and  the  buildings  into  a  palace ;  Queen  Elizabeth  kept 
court  here  in  1573;  Charles  I.  was  married  here,  and 


IN  THE   CATHEDRAL.  253 

Charles  II.  was  here  entertained  on  his  passage  at  the 
Restoration.  The  abbey  and  its  precincts  of  sixteen 
acres  enclosed  by  a  wall  passed  to  various  lay  pos- 
sessors ;  it  was  finally  neglected,  suffered  to  go  to  ruin, 
and  the  people  of  the  neighborhood  freely  appropriated 
its  materials  for  building-purposes.  Less  than  half  a 
century  since,  this  place,  sacred  for  its  memories  and 
famous  for  its  work,  was  woefully  desecrated  by  having 
within  its  courts  a  brewery,  a  skittle-alley  and  a  public- 
house.  Gamesters,  pleasure-seekers,  idlers  and  riff-raff, 
drunken  and  irreverent,  wandered  at  will  over  ground 
and  within  walls  rich  in  the  memorials  of  saints  and 
kings  and  for  ages  consecrated  to  religious  purposes. 
In  1844  the  premises  were  bought  by  an  earnest  and 
devout  churchman,  Sir  Beresford  Hope,  and  converted 
into  a  college  for  the  training  of  a  missionary  clergy ; 
of  the  good  which  the  noble  institution  has  accom- 
plished the  hundreds  of  missionaries  scattered  through- 
out the  world  testify.  The  men  of  St.  Augustine  are  to 
be  found  in  Canada,  Australia,  Africa,  India,  and  else- 
where ;  wherever  found,  they  display  a  piety,  an  earnest- 
ness and  a  power  unexcelled  by  any  and  worthy  of  their 
Alma  Mater.  Parts  of  the  ancient  buildings  are  utilized 
in  the  modern  college;  the  same  water-springs  which 
supplied  the  old  monks  supply  their  successors.  In  the 
modern  cloisters  are  painted  on  the  wall  the  names  of 
the  graduates  of  the  college  and  the  dioceses  to  which 
they  were  sent ;  to  the  names  of  those  who  have  passed 
away  are  added  the  letters  R.  I.  P.  There  is  a  chapel  in 
which  these  latter  names  are  also  reverently  inscribed, 
and  an  altar  where  probably  commemorative  services 
are  held.  In  the  college  chapel  everything  denotes  good 


254  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

churchmanship ;  the  altar  is  suitably  furnished  and  ap- 
propriate vestments  are  used.  In  the  hall  under  the 
library  is  the  museum,  in  which '  is  a  fair  collection  of 
curiosities  sent  by  the  missionaries  from  their  several 
fields  of  labor.  Thus  the  beauty  of  holiness  and  the 
life  of  usefulness  have  come  back  again  to  the  old  mon- 
astery. There  were  difficulties  in  the  way.  It  is  said  that 
when  St.  Augustine  converted  the  heathen  temple  into 
the  church  of  St.  Pancras  the  devil  was  so  annoyed  at 
the  change  that  he  sought  with  all  his  might  to  overturn 
the  building.  He  only  succeeded  in  leaving  the  print 
of  his  talons  in  the  walls  of  the  south  porch.  It  may 
have  been  the  work  of  the  ivy,  but  that  is  immaterial ; 
let  the  legend  stand :  the  cross  won.  So  in  this  later 
regeneration  right  prevailed  over  wrong  and  light  over 
darkness. 

Our  visit  to  Canterbury  is  at  an  end.  Full  of  pleas- 
ant recollections,  we  take  the  train  for  London.  In  the 
same  railway  compartment  with  us  are  three  or  four  boys 
of  King's  School  on  their  way  home  for  the  holidays. 
What  happy,  jolly  little  fellows  they  are !  How  politely 
they  offer  us  the  newspapers  they  have  with  them,  and 
with  what  free,  undisguised  delight  one  of  them  shows 
us  his  prize  book  !  Their  bright  laugh  rings  in  our  ears, 
and  somehow  or  other  we  forget  the  dark  sculptured 
faces  in  the  cathedral  and  see  only  the  clear  faces  of 
these  merry  schoolboys. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

at 


"  Here  his  first  infant  lays  sweet  Shakespeare  sung; 
Here  his  last  accents  faltered  on  his  tongue." 

IT  was  on  a  bright,  warm  August  morning  that  I 
started  in  the  carrier's  stage  for  Stratford-on-Avon.  The 
road  is  one  of  the  best  and  pleasantest  in  England,  pass- 
ing, as  it  does,  through  several  villages  and  a  country 
fertile,  well  wooded  and  highly  cultivated.  By  this  way 
it  is  next  to  certain  Shakespeare  himself  travelled,  as 
people  have  done  for  centuries,  to  London.  As  in  his 
day,  so  now,  the  noble  spire  of  Tredington  church  is  a 
landmark  for  many  a  long  mile,  and  the  Stour  wanders 
between  the  willows  and  through  the  fields  by  the  road- 
side. There  was  a  pleasant  look  of  old-time  life  in  the 
cottages  and  inns,  at  the  latter  of  which  the  coach  stop- 
ped to  receive  messages  and  passengers,  and  where  the 
trimly-dressed  hostess,  full  of  sunshiny  smiles  and  well- 
satisfied  authority,  or  the  wide-awake  hostler  or  boy-of- 
all-work,  gave  the  "  Good-morning  !"  and  sought  for  cus- 
tomers. To  some  of  the  travellers  it  was  evidently  a 
thirsty  day,  and,  as  the  temperance  movement  has  not  to 
any  great  extent  affected  this  part  of  the  world,  huge 
potions  of  bright,  foaming  ale  were  consumed  at  every 
stopping-place.  The  driver  was  happy  and  obliging, 

17  255 


256  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

ready  at  all  times  to  have  a  chat  or  to  give  information  ; 
three  or  four  of  the  passengers  were  merry,  and  enliv- 
ened the  journey  with  odd  rhymes,  humorous  stories 
and  witty  repartees.  One  old  fellow,  full  of  fun  and 
beer,  puzzled  a  boy  who  went  riding  awkwardly  by  on  a 
horse  by  asking  him  "  if  he  would  not  be  safer  riding 
inside."  The  lad  stopped  to  scratch  his  head  and  to 
think.  In  the  meadows  the  haymakers  were  busily  at 
work;  here  and  there  the  forge-fire  gleamed  out  of  the 
dark  shop,  and  the  anvil  ceased  to  ring  as  the  leathern- 
aproned  smith,  holding  the  hot  horseshoe  in  his  pincers, 
stopped  to  look  at  us ;  the  birds  darted  out  of  the  hedges 
at  the  crack  of  the  whip  or  the  bark  of  the  dog ;  car- 
riages, horsemen  and  pedestrians  passed  us  looking 
cheery  and  bright  as  the  day  itself;  and,  now  out  in  the 
open  road,  now  under  the  cool  green  shade  of  overhang- 
ing trees,  we  rolled  over  our  ten  miles,  feeling  that,  after 
all,  there  were  some  pleasures  connected  with  stage-trav- 
elling which  railways  cannot  give. 

The  sun  was  high  toward  noon  when  we  entered  the 
remarkably  clean  and  pretty  town  on  the  Avon.  What 
a  delightful  out-of-the-world  place  it  is !  And  what 
strangely-sweet  emotions  fill  one's  soul  as  one  remem- 
bers that  this  quiet,  contented  burgh,  with  its  beautiful 
surroundings,  prosperous-looking  people  and  antique 
spirit  brooding  over  all,  was  once  the  home  of  him  whose 
glory  is  the  glory  of  humanity  and  whose  thought  per- 
meates the  world !  Here  he  was  born ;  here  he  loved 
and  lived ;  here  he  died.  Stratford  is  all  Shakespeare, 
and  the  town  appears  calmly  conscious  of  the  fact.  It 
may  have  an  older  history,  running  back,  as  it  does,  be- 
yond the  days  of  the  so-called  Saxon  Heptarchy,  full  of 


AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.  257 

interest,  and  possibly  of  romance,  but  all  else  is  forgot- 
ten in  the  one  mighty  thought  of  Shakespeare.  Even 
as  the  sun  at  its  rising  dims  the  stars  whose  brilliancy 
made  the  night-sky  splendid,  so  this  man,  full  of  most 
marvellous  power,  outshines  all  who  lived  before  him. 
Doubtless  the  place  always  had  attractions,  but 

"  Fairer  seems  the  ancient  borough, 

And  its  sunshine  seems  more  fair, 
That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement, 
That  he  once  has  breathed  its  air." 

Beyond  the  town  and  across  the  meadows,  some 
twenty  minutes'  walk,  is  Shottery,  the  village-home  of 
Ann  Hathaway.  There  is  no  difficulty  in  recognizing 
the  cottage,  the  pictures  of  it  being  very  like.  It  is  at 
the  far  side  of  the  little  village,  its  end  to  the  lane-like 
road  and  its  front  largely  hidden  with  honeysuckles  and 
roses.  It  is  of  the  dark  timber  framing  filled  up  with 
bricks  and  plaster  commonly  looked  upon  as  Eliza- 
bethan— or  I  might  almost  say  Shakesperean — with 
deep  gables  and  roof  thatched  with  straw  and  dotted 
with  moss  and  lichen.  A  gate  opens  into  the  garden, 
and  a  narrow  pathway  partly  paved  with  irregular  pieces 
of  stone  and  brick  and  running  up  two  or  three  uneven 
steps  leads  therefrom  to  the  strange-looking  old  door. 
The  clumsy  wooden  latches,  lifted  with  a  string,  the  end 
of  which  is  put  through  a  hole  and  hangs  outside,  are 
still  there,  r  Nor  are  the  oak  pegs  with  which  the  frame- 
work of  the  simple  structure  was  fastened  together  cut 
off.  The  appearance  of  the  place,  unchanged  as  it  is 
for  the  most  part,  gives  a  fair  idea  of  the  houses  of  the 
well-to-do  villagers  three  centuries  since.  Odd  and  un- 


258  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

pretentious,  it  has,  nevertheless,  an  air  of  homely  com- 
fort about  it — a  simplicity  and  a  restfulness  in  which 
suggestions  of  happy,  uneventful  country  life  come  to 
the  mind  as  tenderly  and  sweetly  as  the  matin-chimes 
murmur  in  the  still  summer  air. 

The  old  lady  who  lives  there,  a  descendant  of  the 
Hathaways,  was  very  genial  and  communicative  in 
showing  me  around.  The  house  inside  is  pretty  much 
the  same  as  of  old — the  ample  and  comfortable  kitchen- 
room,  with  its  chimney-place,  in  which  are  the  old  bacon 
cupboards,  as  it  was  when  Willie  Shakespeare  courted 
sweet  Mistress  Ann.  Here,  possibly  in  this  old  chair 
or  on  that  rude  settle,  he  sat  and  told  her  the  story  of 
his  love.  These  very  walls,  this  antique  panelled  wain- 
scoting, these  low  darkened  beams  of  the  ceiling  and 
these  stones  of  the  floor,  could  they  but  speak,  would 
repeat  the  assurances  and  the  vows  of  the  ardent  youth. 
With  some  such  lines  as  these  he  wooed : 

'•  Would  ye  be  taught,  ye  feathered  throng, 
With  love's  sweet  notes  to  grace  your  song, 
To  pierce  the  heart  with  thrilling  lay, 
Listen  to  mine  Ann  Hathaway. 
She  hath  a  way  to  sing  so  clear 
Phoebus  might  wond'ring  stop  to  hear; 
To  melt  the  sad,  make  blithe  the  gay, 
And  Nature  charm,  Ann  hath  a  way, 
.  She  hath  a  will, 
She  hath  a  way, 
To  breathe  delight,  Ann  Hathaway. 

"When  Envy's  breath  and  ranc'rous  tooth 
Do  soil  and  bite  fair  worth  and  truth, 
And  merit  to  distress  betray, 
To  soothe  the  heart,  Ann  hath  a  way; 


A  T  STRA  TFORD- ON- A  VON.  259 

She  hath  a  way  to  chase  despair, 

To  heal  all  grief,  to  cure  all  care, 

Turn  foulest  night  to  fairest  day, 

Thou  know'st,  fond  heart,  Ann  hath  a  way. 

She  hath  a  will, 

She  hath  a  way, 
To  make  grief  bliss,  Ann  Hathaway." 


Some  have  held  that  the  married  life  of  these  two  was 
not  happy,  but  the  most  reliable  evidence  goes  the 
other  way.  Undoubtedly,  Shakespeare  found  in  Ann 
Hathaway  a  good  and  loving  wife,  and  she  found  in 
him  a  true  and  noble-hearted  husband.  If  in  his  will 
he  left  her  only  his  second-best  bed,  it  was  probably  be- 
cause ample  provision  had  been  otherwise  made  for  her. 
At  any  rate,  the  tradition  runs  that  she  earnestly  desired 
to  be  laid  in  the  same  grave  with  him.  It  does  not  fol- 
low, however,  because  he  was  the  poet  of  the  world, 
that  his  sweethearting  was  more  romantic,  soul-absorb- 
ing, beautiful,  than  that  of  other  men.  It  may  have 
been  utterly  prosaic  and  commonplace :  such,  indeed, 
is  the  reaction  frequently  found  in  the  realities  of  the 
life  of  one  of  rare  imaginative  powers;  but,  somehow 
or  other,  as  you  walk  about  this  old  cottage,  you  feel 
that  it  was  not  that.  The  full,  deep  eyes  of  the  man 
indicate  a  warmth  and  depth  of  soul,  a  force  which 
would  gather  the  very  sweetness  of  roses  into  a  sweep- 
ing wind  of  irresistible  passion.  And  Ann?  What 
was  she  ?  Great  geniuses  make  sad  mistakes,  but  one 
does  not  like  to  think  of  the  master-reader  of  human 
character  doing  so  in  this  respect.  Doubtless  she  was 
a  comely  village-maiden — not  a  sylph  such  as  Miranda 
or  a  glowing  beauty  such  as  Juliet,  but  a  true,  home- 


26O  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

like  Warwickshire  damsel,  even  such  a  one  as  sweet 
Mistress  Page. 

Well,  here  in  the  venerable  cottage  she  was  wooed 
and  won  by  Stratford  Will.  There  is  no  reason  to  doubt 
the  tradition  that  this  is  the  very  house,  though,  when 
one  has  carefully  examined  all  the  evidence  in  its  sup- 
port, it  is  not  so  absolutely  convincing  as  one  would  like 
it  to  be.  The  feeling,  however,  is  not  confined  to  Ann 
Hathaway's  cottage :  it  comes  up  again  in  no  less  a  place 
than  the  room  in  which  the  poet  is  said  to  have  been 
born.  Such  scepticism  is  wicked,  perhaps  unreasonable, 
but  it  underlies  most  of  the  traditional  testimony,  never- 
theless. 

In  a  room  up  stairs — the  best  bedroom  of  the  Hath- 
aways — is  an  old  carved  bedstead  probably  of  Eliza- 
bethan age ;  there  are  also  several  chests  and  a  stool  of 
the  same  period.  The  pleasant  old  lady  already  men- 
tioned showed  me  a  sheet  woven  and  made  three  hun- 
dred years  ago,  when  by  such  work  the  maids  of  the 
family  earned  their  title  of  "  spinster."  It  is  neatly  spun 
and  has  a  line  of  inserted  embroidery  up  the  middle. 
The  flooring,  the  walls  and  the  beams  of  the  house  are 
unaltered ;  the  queer  little  staircase,  the  diamond-paned 
dormers,  the  small  low- ceiled  rooms,  the  rude  latches  to 
the  heavy,  worm-eaten  doors,  the  veritable  old  furniture 
and  the  wide  fireplace  with  its  cosey  corners  have  an  in- 
terest delightful  and  absorbing.  Judging  from  the  house, 
the  Hathaways  were  plain  and  fairly  well-to-do  people. 
In  front  of  the  cottage  is  the  old  well,  which  tradition 
says  is  as  it  was  in  Shakespeare's  days — when,  perhaps, 
Master  Will  drew  a  bucket  to  save  Mistress  Ann  the 
labor.  From  the  little  garden  my  agreeable  guide  gath- 


AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.  26 1 

ered  me  a  small  posy  of  flowers — not,  I  presume,  the 
lineal  descendants  of  the  flowers  Ann  Hathaway  tended, 
if  she  tended  any,  but  surely  such  as  she  and  her  Will 
saw  and  plucked  as  they  rambled  arm  in  arm  through 
the  lanes  and  the  gardens  of  this  sweet  village.  There 
are  still  the  flowers  and  the  herbs  which  were  popular  in 
the  olden  time — rue,  thyme,  lavender,  marigold,  rose- 
mary and  celandine — and  in  the  orchard,  full  of  knolls 
and  hollows,  are  apples,  pears,  cherries  and  plums. 
From  the  seat  near  the  cottage  door  much  the  same 
scene  now  presents  itself  as  the  lovers  beheld  long,  long 
ago — the  hills  of  Ilmington  to  the  south  in  their  wood- 
land glory,  the  spire  of  Stratford  church  peeping  up  over 
the  elm  trees,  and  here  and  there  ancient  cottages  with 
their  sun-browned  thatched  roofs ;  a  gentle  land  where 
life  peacefully  flows  through  time  undisturbed  by  the 
ambitions  of  mighty  cities — like,  indeed,  unto  the  silvery 
Avon  as  it  restfully  meanders  amid  the  bright  green 
meadows.  The  walk  across  the  fields  to  Stratford  is 
very  pleasant.  I  could  get  no  certain  information  as  to 
the  age  of  this  footpath,  but  for  long  after  the  poet's 
time  the  Shottery  people  continued  to  attend  Stratford 
church,  and  there  was  naturally  constant  communication 
between  the  village  and  the  town. 

On  re-entering  the  town  I  passed  along  the  chestnut 
walk  and  soon  found  myself  at  the  old  grammar-school. 
This  was  founded  in  1482  and  is  a  plain  building  of  two 
stories,  the  lower  of  which  was  the  guild-hall,  where  the 
citizens  met  in  council  and  where  plays  were  sometimes 
performed,  and  the  upper  the  schoolroom.  It  is  easy  to 
picture  Shakespeare  wending  his  way  to  this  fount  of 
learning,  plodding  over  his  lessons  as  with  slow  steps  he 


262  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

approached  and  ascended  its  stairs,  and  then  listening,  as 
boys  everywhere  listen,  with  more  or  less  attention  to 
the  instruction  given  by  the  prodigiously-learned  school- 
master; but  such  a  picture  depends  solely  upon  imag- 
ination. It  may  not  be  autobiographically — for  Shake- 
speare may  have  been  a  ready  and  an  industrious  scholar 
— but  the  melancholy  Jacques  speaks  of 

"  The  whining  schoolboy,  with  his  satchel, 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school ;" 

and  it  may  have  been  the  recollection  of  his  pedagogue, 
his  Sir  Hugh  Evans,  that  led  the  poet  to  say  of  Malvo- 
lio,  "  He  does  smile  his  face  into  more  lines  than  are  in 
the  new  map,  with  the  augmentation  of  the  Indies."  I 
have  no  doubt  the  wool-stapler's  son  went  here  to  school ; 
I  have  also  no  doubt  the  Stratford  people  have  been  gen- 
erous in  their  discovery  of  traditions,  and  have  made 
leaps  at  conclusions  possible  only  to  intellectual  acrobats. 
These  old,  overhanging,  black-beamed  houses,  however, 
have  an  interest  apart  from  Shakespeare :  they  speak  of 
that  grand  old  world  in  which  lived  he  and  many  of  the 
noblest  and  the  mightiest  of  England's  sons. 

Joining  the  grammar-school  is  the  chapel  of  the  guild 
of  the  Holy  Cross,  "  a  right  goodly  Chapell,"  as  Leland 
describes  it,  dating  from  the  time  of  Henry  VII.,  but 
looking  very  worn  and  much  older.  The  iconoclasts  of 
the  Reformation  and  of  the  Puritan  ages  did  not  leave  it 
untouched ;  some  of  its  images  were  destroyed  and  its 
mural  paintings  were  whitewashed  over.  Among  the 
latter  was  a  remarkably  fine  picture  of  the  martyrdom 
of  St.  Thomas  of  Canterbury  and  a  series  upon  the  his- 


A  T  STRA  TFORD-  ON- A  VON.  263 

tory,  and  especially  the  invention  and  the  exaltation,  of 
the  holy  cross.  The  antique  porch  with  its  quaint  gar- 
goyles attracts  attention.  On  the  left-hand  outside  cor- 
ner of  this  doorway  is  the  singularly  grotesque  head  of 
a  man  with  his  fingers  in  the  corners  of  his  mouth, 
stretching  it  open  as  schoolboys  sometimes  do,  so  that 
the  water  may  spout  through.  A  few  years,  and  age 
and  weather  will  have  entirely  obliterated  this  bit  of  odd 
humor.  The  building  is  in  the  Decorated  style,  and  in 
its  fine  old  tower  is  said  to  be  one  of  the  sweetest  bells 
ever  made  by  man.  This  bell  uttered  its  "  sweete  and 
perfect  sownde  "  not  only  for  divine  service,  but  also  to 
gather  the  members  of  the  guild.  As  everybody  knows, 
the  guilds  were  the  friendly  societies  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  and  their  usefulness  as  bonds  of  social  and  com- 
mercial unity  and  their  care  for  the  poor  and  the  needy 
made  them  popular  among  the  people.  In  this  place  not 
only  the  grammar-school,  but  also  a  row  of  ancient  alms- 
houses,  testifies  to  the  benefit  and  the  charity  of  the  local 
guild.  However,  Henry  VIII.  confiscated  their  property 
throughout  the  kingdom  and  appropriated  their  wealth 
to  distribute  among  his  friends  and  to  his  own  purposes. 
A  crueler  or  a  more  ungodly  act  of  vandalism  was  never 
perpetrated  in  the  name  of  religion. 

Across  the  street  is  the  "  New  Place  "  where  Shake- 
speare lived  in  his  latter  days,  and  where  he  died.  Here 
we  may  picture  the  poet,  beloved  and  laurel-crowned, 
resting  in  his  quiet  home-life  amidst  congenial  surround- 
ings and  visited  by  cherished  friends  and  acquaintances. 
The  eventide  of  his  life,  so  uncertain  are  its  details,  seems 
filled  with  the  calm,  misty  glory  which  dims  and  yet 
makes  radiant  the  objects  upon  which  it  falls.  The 


264  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

house  was  in  Shakespeare's  time  one  of  the  most  import- 
ant and  largest  in  the  town.  It  had  an  orchard  and  a 
garden  stretching  down  to  the  Avon.  Now  a  few  pieces 
of  the  foundation  alone  remain ;  the  rest  was  pulled 
down  in  the  last  century  by  an  amiable  clergyman,  but 
the  true  reason  therefor  is  wrapped  in  mystery.  The 
garden  is  beautifully  kept — the  garden  in  which  the  poet 
walked  and  entertained  his  friends,  and  through  the  trees 
of  which  he  saw  the  walls  and  the  tower  of  the  guild 
chapel.  Sit  down  within  the  tree-shade  on  one  of  these 
rustic  benches — or,  better  still,  on  the  green-sodded  bank 
itself — and  think  of  him  who  once  trod  this  very  ground 
and  whose  flowers  once  grew  in  this  very  soil.  Here 
rare  Ben  Jonson  may  have  walked  arm  in  arm  with  him, 
perchance  across  such  another  velvety  lawn  as  that  one, 
and  here  were  told  stories  and  came  to  life  creations 
which  shall  for  ever  hold  man  spellbound.  In  the  dark- 
ening twilight,  when  the  sweet  chanting  of  the  evensong 
from  the  neighboring  chapel  lingers  in  the  summer  air  as 
in  days  of  yore,  and  the  sky  is  bright  with  sprinkled 
splendor,  this  is  the  spot  to  realize  the  force  of  Lorenzo's 
lines : 

"  How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank ! 
Here  we  will  sit  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears  :  soft  stillness  and  the  night 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica ;  look  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick-inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold : 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubins ; 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls ; 
But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it." 


AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.  26$ 

A  great  many  tourists  were  here  at  the  same  time  as 
myself,  looking  with  great  reverence  upon  these  remains 
of  the  man  all  men  adore.  I  only  hope  that  they,  and 
others  such  as  they,  will  think  kindly  of  the  pilgrims 
who  in  mediaeval  times  frequented  sacred  shrines.  This 
modern  age  regards  the  visit  to  the  town  of  Shakespeare 
as  the  right  thing,  and  the  reverent  pilgrimage  to  his 
grave  and  the  gazing  upon  his  relics  as  highly  com- 
mendable ;  it  looks  back  upon  the  journey  to  the  tomb 
of  Edward  the  Confessor  or  to  that  of  Thomas  a  Becket 
as  rank  superstition. 

It  is  twenty  years  since  I  made  my  first  visit  to  the 
poet's  birthplace,  in  Henley  street,  but  my  interest  in 
that  sacred  spot  has  grown  with  time  and  is  as  fresh  as 
ever.  What  a  centre  of  the  world's  homage !  What 
multitudes  have  entered  this  old  cottage !  The  eye  no 
longer  rests  upon  the  ancient  Tudor  tenements  of  the 
neighborhood  with  their  dark  timbers,  gables,  jutting 
windows  and  signboards,  nor  upon  the  undrained  and 
badly-paved  streets  where  pigs  wallowed  in  the  mire  and 
fowl  scratched  among  the  garbage ;  but  this  house  re- 
mains to  link  us  with  the  past  and  with  this  same  Shake- 
speare. I  suppose  he  sat  on  that  seat  in  the  great  roomy 
fireplace,  looked  out  of  this  oddly-glazed  window  and 
played  on  this  floor.  Any  way,  this  was  the  scene  of 
his  childhood — a  dark  old  place,  but  no  doubt  very 
comfortable  in  bygone  days.  Up  stairs  is  the  room  in 
which  the  poet  was  born.  Does  any  one  doubt  its  being 
the  very  room  ?  The  world  believes  it  implicitly,  yet 
the  minor  facts  of  Christianity  rest  upon  a  foundation 
which  is  as  eternal  rock  compared  with  the  evidence  for 
this  tradition.  It  is,  however,  highly  probable  that  the 


266  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

tradition  is  correct :  who  could  reasonably  question,  if 
it  occurred  in  this  house,  that  the  birth  would  be  ar- 
ranged for  in  the  best  bedroom?  The  walls  and  the 
ceiling  are  covered  with  autographs — an  evidence  of  the 
intense  interest  the  world  has  in  this  small  chamber. 
There  are  also  some  names  scratched  on  the  window- 
panes.  This  way  of  immortalizing  one's  self  is  now  de- 
nied the  public:  visitors  are  required  to  write  their 
names  and  their  residences  in  a  book  prepared  for  that 
purpose.  There  are  a  few  odd  pieces  of  furniture  in  the 
room,  but  there  is  no  proof  that  they  have  any  connec- 
tion with  Shakespeare.  When  the  bare  unsightly  walls 
were  covered  with  arras,  the  place  presented  a  more 
comfortable  appearance  than  it  now  does.  Other  rooms, 
heavy  beamed,  low  roofed  and  dimly  lighted,  suggest 
pleasant  visions  of  the  simple  Stratford  family.  An  old 
desk,  massive  and  cumbersome,  is  shown ;  it  is  said  to 
be  the  one  Shakespeare  used  in  the  grammar-school.  It 
is  interesting  for  that  tradition,  and  he  may  have  sat  at 
it  in  common  with  other  scholars ;  but  it  is  even  more 
interesting  as  affording  an  illustration  of  the  universality 
of  schoolboy  nature  through  all  the  ages.  It  is  whittled 
and  carved  in  true  style,  covered  with  initials  and  de- 
vices even  such  as  would  become  our  youth  of  to-day. 
The  portrait  in  the  iron  safe  up  stairs  is  said  to  be  gen- 
uine. Many  others  are  shown  in  the  museum,  each 
different  in  some  respects  from  the  others,  and  yet  all 
noticeably  agreeing  in  the  high,  wide  forehead  and  the 
full,  clear  eye.  In  this  same  museum — an  adjoining  cot- 
tage opening  into  the  kitchen-room  of  Shakespeare's 
house — are  preserved  the  early  editions  of  the  poet's 
works,  books  illustrating  them  and  his  life,  documents 


A  T  STRA  TFORD-  ON- A  VON.  267 

in  some  way  connected  with  him,  and  many  other  relics, 
some  of  them  very  full  of  interest.  The  tradition  of  the 
Bidford  drinking-bout  and  the  crab-tree  slumber  is 
carefully  preserved  by  pictures,  etc.  The  very  chair  from 
the  "  Falcon  Inn,"  in  that  village,  in  which  Shakespeare 
sat  at  his  revels,  is  shown.  It  is  old  enough  to  have 
served  for  that  purpose,  but,  unfortunately,  there  is  little 
certainty  of  the  truth  of  the  legend.  This  Bidford  was 
famous  in  those  days  for  its  company  of  ale-soaked  to- 
pers, and,  as  drinking-matches  were  then  common,  one 
Whitmonday — so  runs  the  story — some  Stratford  men, 
Will  Shakespeare  among  the  number,  went  to  that  place 
to  test  its  nut-brown  ale  and  to  challenge  its  boast  of  the 
championship  of  England.  The  "  topers  "  were  away  on 
a  match  at  Evesham  at  the  time,  and  only  the  "  sippers  " 
remained  to  defend  the  renown  of  their  village.  The 
Stratford  men  soon  found  that  they  were  no  match  for 
their  opponents,  and,  being  anxious  to  get  home  while 
they  had  some  strength  and  skill  left,  beat  a  hasty  re- 
treat. When  half  a  mile  on  the  way,  they  were  quite 
overcome,  and  were  obliged  to  lie  down  under  a  crab 
tree  by  the  roadside,  where  they  slept  till  next  morning. 
Some  would  then  have  returned  to  the  attack,  but  the 
youthful  Will  had  had  enough  of  "  drunken  Bidford." 
There  may  be  some  allusion  to  such  drinking-matches 
in  the  resolve  of  Slender:  "I'll  ne'er  be  drunk  whilst  I 
live  again,  but  in  honest,  civil,  godly  company,  for  this 
trick ;  if  I  be  drunk,  I'll  be  drunk  with  those  that  have 
the  fear  of  God,  and  not  with  drunken  knaves."  The 
story,  though  long  believed  by  Stratfordians  and  not  al- 
together improbable,  is,  most  likely,  a  fabrication — alas ! 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  crab  tree  kept  its  place  till 


268  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

the  winter  of  1824.  As  one  wanders  about  the  house 
so  fragrant  with  associations  of  deepest  interest  one  feels 
that  the  strangest  thing  of  all  is  that  of  a  man  so  great 
as  was  this  man  we  really  know  so  little. 

From  Henley  street  to  the  parish  church,  dedicated  to 
the  Holy  Trinity  and  retaining  its  ancient  collegiate  priv- 
ileges, is  a  walk  of  ten  minutes.  A  noble  lime-tree  avenue 
leads  up  from  the  gateway  to  the  principal  porch.  Some 
portions  of  the  sacred  edifice  are  Early  English  and  Deco- 
rated, but  the  best  parts  are  Perpendicular.  The  clerestory 
of  the  nave  is  remarkably  well  lighted  with  Decorated 
windows  unusually  large  and  close  together.  In  the  north 
aisle  was  once  a  chapel  dedicated  to  the  Blessed  Virgin ; 
in  the  south,  one  to  St.  Thomas  of  Canterbury.  Now  in 
the  former  are  several  altar-tombs,  mostly  of  the  Clop- 
ton  family  and  having  upon  them  some  well-executed 
recumbent  effigies.  The  chancel  was  built  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  fifteenth  century  by  Dr.  Thomas  Balsall,  dean 
of  Stratford,  and  is  a  perfect  and  beautiful  specimen  of 
Perpendicular  work.f  There,  inside  the  altar-rails,  is  the 
grave  of  the  poet.-^  Not  long  since  it  was  outside,  but 
the  constant  press  of  visitors  began  to  wear  away  the 
stone,  and  so  the  rails  were  moved  forward  to  a  lower 
step.  What  can  I  say  of  this  sacred  spot  that  others 
have  not  said  ?  Here  is  something  tangible  of  Shake- 
speare— something  that  brings  home  to  you  the  fact  of 
his  existence.  In  his  marvellous  work  you  overlook  the 
fact  of  his  personality :  the  creator  is  forgotten  for  the 
nonce  in  the  loveliness  and  the  might  of  the  creation ; 
but  as  you  look  upon  this  plain  slab  with  its  oft-re- 
peated inscription  you  realize  the  very  truth  of  him  who 
is  primus  inter  pares — the  prince  through  all  the  ages, 


AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.  269 

outshining  even  the  pure  glory  of  Homer  and  Dante. — 
Sweet  Will !  grand  as  thou  art  in  thine  unapproachable 
splendor,  thy  majesty  greater  than  that  of  the  kings 
whom  thou  hast  made  to  live  in  thy  wondrous  lines, 
how  dear  thou  art  to  the  hearts  of  all  men  !  No  ;  none 
shall  touch  thy  sacred  dust :  thou  shalt  sleep  in  peace 
till 

"  The  dreadful  trumpet  sound  the  general  doom." 

Is  not  the  fact  that  Shakespeare  is  here  buried  a  suffi- 
cient refutation  of  the  story  invented  by  some  one  that 
he  died  a  papist  ?  Over  his  open  grave  was  read  the 
office  of  the  Church  of  England — an  act  which  would 
not  have  been  done  or  been  allowed  by  either  Anglicans 
or  Latins  had  he  been  a  member  of  the  Roman  obedi- 
ence. In  that  age  of  bitter  Protestantism  neither  his  po- 
sition nor  his  talents  would  have  overcome  the  scruples 
of  his  townsmen — intensely  Puritanical  as  they  were — 
and  led  them  to  honor  him  as  they  did. 

In  one  of  the  graveyards  of  Fredericksburg,  Va.,  there 
is  a  relic  to  which  we  may  here  direct  attention.  It  is  a 
slab  of  red  sandstone,  on  which  may  be  deciphered  these 
words : 

Here  lies  the  body  of 

EDWARD  HELDON, 

Practitioner  in  Physics  and  Chi- 

rurgery.     Born  in  Bedfordshire, 

England,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 

1542.     Was  contemporary  with,  and 

one  of  the  pall  bearers  of  William 

Shakespeare  of  the  Avon.     After  a 

brief  illness  his  spirit  ascended  in 

the  year  of  our  Lord  1618 — 

aged  76. 


2/0  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

On  the  one  side  of  the  poet's  grave  lies  his  wife,  once 
sweet  mistress  Ann,  and  on  the  other  side  his  favorite 
daughter,  Susanna,  wife  of  John  Hall.  His  daughter 
Judith  is  also  buried  there.  Other  graves  and  tombs 
are  close  by — beside  the  altar  a  monument  to  Shake- 
speare's friend,  John  Combe,  and  on  the  south  side  of  the 
sanctuary  one,  much  defaced,  to  the  builder  of  this  part 
of  the  church.  On  the  wall  over  the  west  end  of  the 
latter  monument  is  the  famous  bust  of  Shakespeare. 
This  was  erected  perhaps  earlier,  but  certainly  within 
seven  years  of  his  death,  and,  as  it  is  generally  admitted 
to  have  been  worked  from  a  cast  of  his  features,  it  is  the 
only  known  trustworthy  representation  of  him.  Here 
may  be  seen  his  fine,  full,  round  face,  towering  brow, 
light-hazel,  large-orbed  eyes,  auburn  hair  and  beard,  ex- 
pressive lips  and  well-set  chin.  The  signs  of  genius  are 
there,  if  they  have  ever  been  expressed  in  the  counte- 
nance of  man.  The  scarlet  doublet  and  the  black  sleeve- 
less gown  in  which  he  is  clad  bring  him  before  us  as  he 
was  when  on  high-days  and  holidays  he  walked  along 
the  streets  of  London  and  of  Stratford. 

The  timber  roof  of  the  chancel  is  fine ;  at  the  ends  of 
the  beams  are  well-carved  figures  holding  armorial  shields 
on  their  breasts.  At  the  corbels  on  which  these  beams 
rest  are  also  sculptured  figures  in  stone  which  join  the 
smaller  figures  at  the  end  of  the  mouldings  over  the 
window  arches.  The  three  figures  in  a  row,  recurring 
several  times,  have  a  singular  effect.  The  great  Perpen- 
dicular window  in  the  east,  resplendent  with  the  glory  of 
stained  glass,  and  the  American  window,  in  like  manner 
glorious,  are  very  good ;  and  the  doorway  on  the  north 
side,  near  the  altar-rails,  once  leading,  I  believe,  to  a 


AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.  2? I 

great  charnel-house  long  since  pulled  down,  has  at  the 
terminations  of  its  arch-moulding — or,  rather,  had,  for 
they  are  nearly  obliterated — carvings  of  St.  Christopher 
and  the  Annunciation.  The  niches  and  the  miserere  seats 
are  deserving  of  notice ;  also  the  old  carved  pews.  In 
the  south  transept  is  the  font  in  which  Shakespeare  was 
baptized,  also  an  altar-tomb  dating  about  1593,  with  an 
inscription  in  Hebrew,  Greek,  Latin  and  English.  It  is 
needless  to  record  the  several  inscriptions  relating  to  the 
poet,  but  the  following  is  a  copy  of  that  belonging  to 
this  tomb: 


"  Heare  borne,  heare  lived,  heare  died,  and  buried  heare, 
Lieth  Richarde  Hil,  thrise  bailif  of  this  borrow ; 
Too  matrones  of  good  fame  he  married  in  Codes  feare, 
And  now  releast  in  joi,  he  reasts  from  worldie  sorrow. 

"  Heare  lieth  entomb'd  the  corps  of  Richarde  Hil, 
A  woollen  draper  beeing  in  his  time ; 
Whose  virtues  live,  whose  fame  dooth  flourish  stil, 
Though  hee  desolved  be  to  dust  and  slime. 
A  mirror  he,  and  paterne  mai  be  made 
For  such  as  shall  suckcead  him  in  that  trade ; 
He  did  not  used  to  sweare,  to  glose,  eather  faigne, 
His  brother  to  defraude  in  barganinge ; 
Hee  woold  not  strive  to  get  excessive  gaine 
In  any  cloath  or  other  kind  of  thinge  ; 
His  servant,  S.  I.  this  trueth  can  testifie, 
A  witness  that  beheld  it  with  mi  eie." 


Dugdale  preserved  the  following  copy  of  verses  in- 
scribed on  the  tombstone  of  Susanna  Hall,  but  after- 
ward obliterated  to  make  room  for  the  record  of  a 
certain  Richard  Watts: 

18 


2/2      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

"  Heere  lyeth  y*  body  of  Svsanna  wife  to  lohn  Hall  gent :  y*  daughter 
of  William  Shakespeare,  gent :  Shee  deceased  ye  ijth  of  iuly  A°.  1649, 
aged  66. 

Witty  above  her  sexe,  but  that's  not  all, 
Wise  to  salvation  was  good  Mistris  Hall. 
Something  of  Shakespeare  was  in  that,  but  this 
Wholy  of  him  with  whom  she's  now  in  blisse. 

Then,  Passenger,  hast  ne're  a  teare, 

To  weepe  with  her  that  wept  with  all  ? 

That  wept,  yet  set  her  selfe  to  chere 

Them  up  with  comforts  cordiall. 

Her  love  shall  live,  her  mercy  spread, 

When  thou  ha'st  ner"e  a  teare  to  shed." 


The  external  appearance  of  the  church  in  grace  and 
dignity  well  becomes  the  mausoleum  of  Shakespeare. 
It  is  cruciform,  the  battlemented  tower,  surmounted  by 
a  modern  spire,  rising  from  the  intersection  of  the  nave 
and  choir  and  the  two  transepts.  Outside  the  chancel, 
at  the  heads  of  the  buttresses  and  along  the  panelled 
and  embattled  parapet,  are  many  grotesque  figures — 
toads,  dragonflies,  fish,  etc.  Such  representations  of 
natural  objects  on  the  outside  are  not  uncommon  in 
churches  of  this  and  of  earlier  periods.  Sometimes 
they  are  grotesque,  sometimes  fairly  accurate  repre- 
sentations— birds,  beasts,  reptiles  and  fishes.  Possibly 
the  intention  of  the  old  artists  in  putting  these  figures 
outside  was  to  indicate  that  the  animal  creation  was  ex- 
ternal to  the  realm  and  object  of  grace.  They  are  rare- 
ly— never  in  a  grotesque  form  or  otherwise  than  as  sym- 
bols of  some  virtue  or  personage — placed  inside  the 
building,  and  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  designs  of  flow- 
ers seem  to  have  no  restrictions :  if  anything,  they  pre- 
dominate in  the  interior.  Flowers,  however,  in  them- 


AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.  2? 3 

selves  so  beautiful,  are  the  fittest  and  the  sweetest  sym- 
bols of  that  which  is  heavenly  and  divine.  They  are 
fragments  of  glory — cast-off  bits  of  celestial  material 
which  ere  they  fell  to  earth  were  touched  by  the  sweep- 
ing robes  of  angels,  and  thus  received  a  beauty  and  a 
hue,  alas !  such  as  can  only  be  evanescent  in  a  world 
such  as  ours. 

The  sweet  Avon  flows  gently  by  this  noble  house  of 
God,  and  the  meadows  beyond  look  lovely  in  their  sum- 
mer dress.  In  the  churchyard  are  many  old  tombstones. 
The  orthography  of  one  on  the  south  side  of  the  church 
struck  me  as  peculiar.  The  inscription  is  to  the  memory 
of  two  women  who  died  in  the  spring  of  1699,  aged,  re- 
spectively, eighty-seven  and  thirty-seven  years.  Where- 
abouts they  are  buried  I  do  not  know,  for  the  stone  has 
been  removed  from  its  original  position  to  serve  as  a  sort 
of  curbstone  where  it  now  is.  This  desecration,  so  sug- 
gestive of  an  unsympathetic  spirit  and  deserving  of  every 
condemnation,  is  not  uncommon  in  the  old  English 
churchyards,  though  it  is  possibly  confined  to  the  util- 
itarians of  some  few  generations  since.  My  transcrip- 
tion is  carefully  exact:  with  the  exception  of  the  k  in 
"  Stroks,"  which  is  a  capital,  it  is  precisely  as  it  is  en- 
graved on  the  stone. 

"  Death  creeps  Abought  on  hard 
And  Steals  Abroad  on  Seen 
Hur  darts  are  Sliding  and  hur  arous  Keen 
Hur  Stroks  are  deadly  com8  they  soon  or  late 
When  being  Strock  Repentance  is  to  Late 
Death  is  A  minute  ful  of  Suden  Sorrow 
Then  Live  to  day  as  thou  mayest  dy  to  morow." 

Curious  ways  of  giving  dates  also  attract  attention.     Of 


274     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

a  woman  it  is  said  she  died  "  in  the  40  Second  year  of 
her  age."  Sometimes  the  old  gravestone-cutters  chipped 
out  the  tens  first  and  then  the  units ;  thus,  for  34  we 
find  304. 

There  is  a  right  of  way  through  the  churchyard,  and 
the  walk  by  the  Avon  is  exceedingly  pleasant.  On  a 
stone  near  that  walk  is  the  name  "  Davidona,"  unique  in 
my  experience  and  not  mentioned  by  Miss  Charlotte 
Yonge.  There  is  an  old  stone  seat — I  fancy  it  was  once 
a  tomb — where  visitors  may  sit  in  the  shade  of  the  trees 
and  look  upon  the  river  and  the  fields  beyond.  How 
softly  the  warm  beams  fall  through  the  leafy  branches 
and  play  like  bright-robed  seraphs  amongst  the  graves 
and  on  the  cool,  tiny  wavelets !  There  are  a  few  trees 
farther  down  to  suggest  the  willow-shaded  stream  of 
Ophelia;  the  fish  leap  to  the  fly  in  the  sunshine  and 
merry  ripples  play  around  the  boats  with  young  men  and 
women  rowing  hither  and  thither.  Such  a  restful  sum- 
mer scene  as  this  Shakespeare  must  have  looked  upon ; 
nay,  he  undoubtedly  wandered  up  and  down  that  gentle 
river,  peering  into  its  banks  for  the  holes  of  otter  and  of 
rat,  seeking  to  catch  pike  or  perch  or  trout,  perhaps  going 
over  love's  sweet  story  to  his  dear  Ann  of  Shottery,  and 
perhaps  dreaming  out  some  of  those  creations  which 
must  be  the  wonder  of  the  world  till  the  end  of  time.  It 
is  all  Shakespeare.  The  green  grass,  the  willow  and  the 
lime  trees,  the  sunshine,  the  glittering  water,  the  noble 
church,  the  fields  so  fresh  and  living,  the  birds  that  flit 
from  bough  to  pinnacle  and  from  wall  to  tree, — every- 
thing speaks  of  him.  If  elsewhere  nature  is  the  ex- 
pression, the  robe,  of  Deity,  here  nature  is  filled  with 
the  spirit  of  the  man  to  whom  God  gave  a  supreme, 


A  T  STRA  TFORD-  ON- A  VON.  2?$ 

magnificent  and  unique  gift.  Who  visiting  this  conse- 
crated place  does  not  for  ever  after  read  Shakespeare 
with  the  greatest  interest  and  the  fullest  appreciation? 

Apart  from  the  places  associated  with  the  poet  there 
is  nothing  of  much  interest  in  the  town.  A  few  old 
houses  remain — very  few,  considering — and  one  looks 
with  pleasure  upon  their  gabled  roofs  and  the  black 
timbers.  The  streets  are  very  clean  and  well  kept ;  the 
shops,  small  and  tidy.  There  is  an  appearance  of  pros- 
perity: Shakespeare  is  evidently  to  Stratford  what 
Becket  was  to  Canterbury,  or,  to  put  it  differently,  the 
one  made  and  the  other  is  making  the  trade  and  the  life 
of  their  respective  towns.  The  constant  presence  of  vis- 
itors from  many  lands  gives  to  the  people  something  of  a 
cosmopolitan  polish  and  politeness ;  their  speech  is  fairly 
free  from  provincialisms,  and  they  have  as  full  and  as 
just  an  appreciation  of  the  distinction  which  their  town 
has  received  by  having  greatness  thrust  upon  it  as  they 
have  a  bright  and  attentive  disposition  toward  both  busi- 
ness and  pleasure.  I  made  several  purchases,  and  in  one 
shop  bought  a  pair  of  "  Shakespearean "  gloves.  The 
pretty  twelve-year-old  girl  who  sold  them  amused  me  by 
blushingly  and  naively  saying,  "  Of  course,  sir,  if  they 
don't  fit,  we  will  change  them."  She  did  not  understand 
that  in  a  relic  the  matter  of  size  is  of  little  consequence. 

Four  miles  from  Stratford  is  Charlecote,  once  the 
home  of  that  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  to  whom  Shakespeare 
gave  an  immortality  of  ridicule  as  Justice  Shallow.  The 
story  runs  that  the  poet,  having  fallen  into  ill  company, 
made  a  practice  of  stealing  the  knight's  deer,  for  which 
offence  Sir  Thomas  naturally  sought  redress  in  prose- 
cution. Shakespeare  was  followed  closely  and  severely, 


2/6  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

and  in  the  spring  of  1585  he  resolved  to  leave  his  busi- 
ness and  family  in  Stratford  and  to  seek  shelter  in  Lon- 
don. But  before  he  left  Warwickshire  he  wrote  a  bitter 
ballad  upon  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  and  nailed  it  on  one  of 
the  posts  of  the  park  gate.  Only  one  stanza  of  this 
ballad  has  been  preserved,  and,  to  say  the  least,  there  is 
little  or  none  of  the  Shakespearean  ring  about  it : 

"  A  parliament  member,  a  justice  of  peace, 
At  home  a  poor  scarecrow,  at  London  an  asse ; 
If  lowsie  is  Lucy,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  Lucy  is  lowsie,  whatever  befall  it. 
He  thinks  himself  great, 
Yet  an  asse  in  his  state, 

We  allowe  of  his  ears  but  with  asses  to  mate ; 
If  Lucy  is  lowsie,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  sing  lowsie  Lucy,  whatever  befall  it.'' 

Passages  in  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  are  said  to  con- 
tain allusions  to  the  tradition,  and  to  the  unfortunate 
knight  so  severely  lampooned.  Possibly  there  may  be 
some  truth  in  the  legend,  though  it  should  be  remem- 
bered that  the  earliest  mention  of  it  is  about  1707,  that 
none  of  Shakespeare's  rivals,  who  were  ready  enough  to 
pick  flaws  in  him,  ever  twitted  him  with  it,  that  the  pun- 
ishment for  deer-stealing  was  not,  as  the  legend  affirms, 
whipping,  but  imprisonment  and  fine,  and,  lastly,  that 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy  had  no  deer-park  and  no  deer.  Nev- 
ertheless Charlecote — or  Ceorlcote,  the  home  of  the  hus- 
bandman, according  to  the  Saxon — is  indissolubly  con- 
nected with  the  poet,  and  they  who  visit  Stratford  should 
also  go  farther  and  see  the  ancient  village.  Well  will 
they  be  repaid  for  so  doing.  Read  these  sympathetic 
lines  from  the  pen  of  Charles  Knight :  "  There  stands, 


AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.  277 

with  slight  alterations — and  those  in  good  taste — the  old 
mansion  as  it  was  reared  in  the  days  of  Elizabeth.  A 
broad  avenue  leads  to  its  great  gateway,  which  opens 
into  the  court  and  the  principal  entrance.  We  would 
desire  to  people  that  hall  with  kindly  inmates,  to  imag- 
ine the  fine  old  knight — perhaps  a  little  too  puritanical, 
indeed,  in  his  latter  days — living  there  in  peace  and  hap- 
piness with  his  family ;  merry  as  he  ought  to  have  been 
with  his  first  wife,  Jocosa  (whose  English  name,  Joyce, 
soundeth  not  quite  so  pleasant),  whose  epitaph,  by  her 
husband,  is  honorable  alike  to  the  deceased  and  to  the 
survivor.  We  can  picture  him  planting  the  second 
avenue,  which  leads  obliquely  across  the  park  from  the 
great  gateway  to  the  porch  of  the  parish  church.  It  is 
an  avenue  too  narrow  for  carriages,  if  carriages  had  then 
been  common ;  and  the  knight  and  his  lady  walked  in 
stately  guise  along  that  grassy  pathway,  as  the  Sunday 
bells  summon  them  to  meet  their  humble  neighbors  in 
a  place  where  all  are  equal.  Charlecote  is  full  of  rich 
woodland  scenery.  The  lime-tree  avenue  may,  perhaps, 
be  of  a  later  date  than  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  and  one  elm 
has  evidently  succeeded  another,  century  after  century. 
But  there  are  old  gnarled  oaks  and  beeches  dotted  about 
the  park.  Its  little  knolls  and  valleys  are  the  same  as 
they  were  two  centuries  ago.  The  same  Avon  flows  be- 
neath the  gentle  elevation  on  which  the  house  stands, 
sparkling  in  the  sunshine  as  brightly  as  when  that  house 
was  first  built.  There  may  we  still  lie 

'  Under  an  oak,  where  antique  roots  peep  out 
Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  this  wood,' 

and  doubt  not  that  there  was  the  place  to  which 


27 8     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

1  a  poor  sequester'd  stag, 
That  from  the  hunter's  aim  had  ta'en  a  hurt, 
Did  come  to  languish.' 

"  There  we  may  still  see 

'  a  careless  herd, 
Full  of  the  pasture,' 

leaping  gayly  along  or  crossing  the  river  at  their  own 
will  in  search  of  fresh  fields  and  low  branches  whereon 
to  browse.  The  village  of  Charlecote  is  now  one  of  the 
prettiest  of  objects.  Whatever  is  new  about  it — and 
most  of  the  cottages  are  new — looks  like  a  restoration 
of  what  was  old.  The  same  character  prevails  in  the 
neighboring  village  of  Hampton  Lucy,  and  it  may  not 
be  too  much  to  assume  that  the  memory  of  him  who 
walked  in  these  pleasant  places  in  his  younger  days,  long 
before  the  sounds  of  his  greatness  had  gone  forth  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  has  led  to  the  desire  to  preserve  here 
something  of  the  architectural  character  of  the  age  in 
which  he  lived." 

In  Charlecote  church  is  the  tomb  of  Sir  Thomas  and 
Lady  Lucy.  The  former  died  in  1 600 — a  man  high  in 
position  and  worthily  esteemed  by  his  neighbors.  On 
the  front  of  the  altar-shaped  tomb  are  the  figures  of  Sir 
Thomas  and  the  Lady  Joyce  kneeling  in  prayer.  Upon 
the  top  they  lie  in  full-length  effigy,  dressed  in  the  cos- 
tume of  the  period,  with  folded  hands,  and  in  the  features 
of  the  old  knight — well  executed  and  probably  accurate 
— we  may  discern  a  nobility  of  character  far  greater  than 
a  Justice  Shallow  could  possibly  have  had.  The  wife's 
virtues  are  recorded  on  a  black  slab  at  the  back  of  the 
tomb  in  the  following  touching  and  beautiful  inscription: 


AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.  279 

"Here  entombed  lyeth  the  Lady  Joyce  Lucy,  wife  of  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy,  of  Cherlecote,  in  the  county  of  Warwick,  Knight, 
Daughter  and  Heir  of  Sir  Thomas  Acton,  of  Sutton,  in  the  county 
of  Worcester,  Esquier,  who  departed  out  of  this  wretched  world 
to  her  heavenly  kingdome  the  tenth  day  of  February,  in  the  year 
of  our  Lord  God  1595,  of  her  age  LX  and  three.  All  the  time 
of  her  life  a  true  and  faithfull  servant  of  her  good  God,  never  de- 
tected of  any  crime  or  vice ;  in  religion  most  sound ;  in  love  to 
her  husband  most  faithful  and  true ;  in  friendship  most  constant ; 
to  what  was  in  trust  committed  to  her  most  secret ;  in  wisdome 
excelling ;  in  governing  of  her  house,  and  bringing  up  of  youth  in 
the  feare  of  God  that  did  converse  with  her,  most  rare  and  singu- 
lar. A  great  maintainer  of  hospitality;  greatly  esteemed  of  her 
betters;  misliked  of  none  unless  of  the  envious.  When  all  is 
spoken  that  can  be  said,  a  woman  so  furnished  and  garnished 
with  virtue,  as  not  to  be  bettered,  and  hardly  to  be  equalled  by 
any.  As  she  lived  most  virtuously,  so  she  dyed  most  godly.  Set 
down  by  him  that  best  did  know  what  hath  been  written  to  be 
true. 

THOMAS  LUCY." 

A  husband  who  could  say  so  much  of  his  wife  could  not 
have  been  deserving  of  such  obloquy  as  that  heaped 
upon  him  by  an  idle  story  of  a  youthful  poacher. 

And  now  my  day  at  Stratford  began  to  darken  for  its 
close.  In  the  still,  warm  twilight  I  set  out  on  my  return 
journey.  The  drive  was  full  of  pleasant  thoughts  and 
delightful  reminiscences.  The  stone  bridge  of  fourteen 
pointed  arches  over  the  Avon  was  built  by  a  Clopton  in 
the  reign  of  Henry  VII.,  and  is  still  good  and  sound.  Just 
on  the  other  side  is  an  inn  named  "  The  Shoulder  of  Mut- 
ton ;"  the  old  sign,  battered  and  broken,  retains  on  it  a 
figure  with  some  resemblance  to  that  joint  of  meat.  The 
tavern  was  long  since  of  more  importance  than  it  now  is. 
As  we  pass  through  the  villages  on  the  way  we  notice 
the  great  number  of  children ;  at  one  small  place  no  less 


280  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

than  eighteen,  all  dirty  from  head  to  foot,  gathered  in 
the  road  to  look  at  us.  As  the  night-gloom  thickens 
the  stars  peep  out  one  by  one,  faint  streams  of  light  are 
cast  across  the  road  from  cottage  candles,  bats  and  owls 
sweep  leisurely  by,  and  the  eye  grows  weary  of  peering 
into  the  darkness.  Nature  has  robed  herself  for  rest. 

I  ride  silently  along,  half  thinking,  half  dreaming,  and, 
among  other  things,  the  old  bridge  over  which  we  passed 
reminds  me  of  the  story  of  poor  Charlotte  Clopton.  She 
was  a  sweet-looking  girl — so  the  authentic  legend  runs 
— with  pale-gold  hair  combed  back  from  her  forehead 
and  falling  in  wavy  ringlets  on  her  neck,  and  with  eyes 
that  "  looked  like  violets  filled  with  dew."  They  who 
have  seen  her  picture,  which  is  still  preserved,  say  she 
was  full  of  grace  and  beauty.  When  Shakespeare  was 
an  infant,  a  plague  broke  out  in  the  town  and  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Stratford,  and  from  it  this  comely  and  noble- 
born  maiden  sickened,  and  to  all  appearance  died.  With 
fearful  haste  they  laid  her  in  the  vaults  of  the  Clopton 
chapel  in  the  parish  church.  In  a  few  days  another  of 
the  family  died ;  but  when  they  carried  him  down  the 
gloomy  stairs  into  the  vault,  by  the  torchlight  they  saw 
Charlotte  Clopton,  in  her  grave-clothes,  leaning  against 
the  wall.  They  drew  nearer ;  she  was  indeed  dead,  but 
she  had  passed  away  in  the  agonies  of  despair  and  hun- 
ger. This  fearful  event,  if  it  did  not  suggest,  possibly 
helped  the  poet  to  realize,  the  well-known  catastrophe 
of  Romeo  and  Juliet. 


CHAPTER    XII. 


"  While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand, 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrow'd  land, 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale." 

IT  was  on  an  October  day  in  the  year  1642  that  the 
royalists  and  the  Parliamentarians  met  on  the  battlefield 
of  Edgehill.  This  fact  has  given  an  historic  interest  to 
one  of  the  most  lovely  districts  in  the  English  Mid- 
lands, and  attracts  to  the  neighborhood  many  who  are 
interested  in  the  great  struggle  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury. There  are  also  villages  and  hamlets  scattered 
about  this  quiet  region,  both  pretty  and  ancient,  their 
names  indicating  early  Saxon  origin,  and  their  peaceful 
life  and  their  gentle  beauty,  as  they  nestle  half  playfully, 
half  shyly,  amidst  the  bright  green  trees,  suggesting  the 
simplicity  and  the  happiness  of  Eden.  Here  one  may 
still  see  England  much  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  yore,  and 
behold  in  their  perfection  the  power  and  the.  charm  of  a 
rural  life  on  which  Nature  has  right  royally  bestowed 
some  of  her  best  gifts,  and  where  the  people  are  for  the 
most  part  untouched  by  the  realities  of  modern  progress. 
Next  to  living  in  such  an  Arcadia,  the  best  way  to  ap- 
preciate and  understand  it,  to  find  out  its  secrets  and  to 

281 


282  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

enjoy  its  delights,  is  to  pass  leisurely  and  contentedly 
through  it  on  foot.  It  is  no  use  to  hurry  through, 
riding  or  driving  as  if  time  were  of  consequence; 
neither  meadow  nor  village,  neither  woodland  nor  hill- 
side, will  unfold  its  sweet  mysteries  to  one  who  impa- 
tiently or  thoughtlessly  rushes  along.  Life  is  slow  and 
quiet  here,  and  they  who  cannot  for  the  nonce  enter 
into  the  same  calm,  steady  spirit  had  better  not  visit 
the  valley  of  the  Red  Horse  nor  climb  the  heights  of 
Edgehill.  , 

At  Shipston  the  shadows  were  long  and  the  streets 
were  still  when  in  the  bright  summer  morning  I  set  out 
on  my  ramble  through  this  part  of  the  country.  It  was 
not  for  the  first  time  in  my  life :  every  step  and  every 
scene  of  the  way  was  familiar  and  awakened  pleasant 
recollections  and  associations.  I  passed  over  the  mill- 
bridge,  beneath  which  the  boys  still  wade  and  fish  for 
minnows  and  sticklebacks,  as  they  have  done  for  gen- 
erations. The  sunbeams  flow  through  the  willows  on 
the  bank  and  make  the  dewdrops  sparkle  and  the  tiny 
ripples  on  the  clear  water  shimmer.  A  solitary- frog 
plunges  into  the  stream,  the  birds  are  twittering  and 
looking  eagerly  for  the  early  worm,  and  the  cows  in  the 
meadow  are  busy  at  the  mist-wet  herbage.  I  cross  the 
fields  and  soon  reach  Fell  Mill  lane,  so  called  from  a 
mill  once  used  for  felling  cloth — an  ideal  lane,  tree- 
arched,  hedge-hemmed  and  grass-bordered.  Here  you 
may  hear  the  full,  rich  song  of  the  blackbird  and  the 
thrush ;  and  if  you  will  remain  motionless  for  a  while, 
you  may  see  partridges  feeding  in  the  wheatfields  close 
by,  rabbits  skipping  in  the  green  sward,  and  linnets, 
blackcaps  and  wrens  nest-building  or  bathing  in  the 


TO  EDGEHILL.  283 

road  dust.  The  woodpecker  taps  away  at  the  withered 
branch  in  the  elm  and  the  rat  comes  sniffling  up  out  of 
the  ditch,  undisturbed  by  the  bleating  of  the  sheep  in 
the  meadow  or  the  barking  of  the  dog  at  the  distant 
farmyard  or  the  cackling  of  the  geese  on  their  way  to 
pasture  or  to  water.  Earlier  in  the  year  the  cry  of 
"  Cuckoo !"  falls  upon  your  ear,  and  in  the  late  twilight 
the  melody  of  the  nightingale  flows  from  the  wayside 
orchard.  The  moment  you  stir  all  is  changed :  the  rats 
and  the  rabbits  run,  the  partridges  whir  away,  the  birds 
fly  off. 

As  I  walk  on  through  the  lane  I  meet  two  or  three 
haymakers — stolid-looking,  stiff-moving,  carrying  their 
scythes  and  rakes,  and  also  their  earthen  jug  of  small- 
beer.  I  wish  them  "  Good-morning  "  and  turn  into  the 
road  running  across  the  fields,  in  which  sheep  and  cattle 
and  horses  are  grazing,  past  the  farm  known  as  St.  Den- 
nis, to  Tysoe.  In  the  still,  bright  morning  the  country 
appeared  picturesque  and  pleasing.  One  could  not  tire 
of  looking  at  the  fresh  green  hedgerows,  the  tall  tree- 
clumps,  the  fertile  hills  and  the  waving  fields  of  corn. 
In  the  ponds  which  here  and  there  occurred  by  the  road- 
side ducks  and  geese  were  waddling  or  swimming  and 
cows  were  cooling  themselves  and  thoughtfully  chewing 
the  cud.  Only  once  did  I  meet  any  one  in  the  five 
miles  between  Fell  Mill  lane  and  Tysoe.  Nor,  indeed, 
did  I  wish  to  have  the  sweet  solitude  broken.  Alone 
one  can  think  aloud,  hum  over  snatches  of  old  melodies, 
recall  passages  of  the  poets,  drop  leisurely  into  desultory 
arguments  with  one's  self,  build  castles  as  high  and  as 
glorious  as  the  towers  and  the  palaces  of  cloudland, 
take  in  the  scenery  around,  and  stop  at  one's  own  sweet 


284  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

will  to  behold  this  attraction  or  to  examine  that  cu- 
riosity. 

It  was  still  early  when  I  reached  the  little  straggling 
village  of  Tysoe.  The  place  is  old ;  the  church  is  said 
to  have  been  built  two  hundred  years  before  the  Nor- 
man Conquest,  and  some  parts  of  it  may  indeed  be  as 
ancient.  Between  the  nave  and  the  chancel  is  a  small 
bell- cot  or  turret  apparently  as  old  as  the  rest  of  the 
building,  and  possibly  in  days  gone  by  containing  the 
bell  which  was  rung  at  the  consecration  and  elevation 
of  the  Host.  In  the  yard,  full  of  graves,  is  part  of  an 
old  stone  cross.  These  crosses  are  of  frequent  occur- 
rence in  ancient  and  mediaeval  churchyards.  After  ser- 
vice did  the  people  of  bygone  times  adjourn  from  the 
church  to  the  space  immediately  around  such  crosses  as 
this  to  hear  sermons  ?  The  village  is  well  supplied  with 
arched  fountains  in  the  walls  by  the  roadside.  One  of 
these  fountains  is  surmounted  by  a  cross  and  has  run- 
ning along  the  line  of  the  arch  the  appropriate  words, 
"  Whosoever  drinketh  of  this  water  shall  thirst  again, 
but  whosoever  drinketh  of  the  water  that  I  shall  give 
him  shall  never  thirst."  Doubtless  many  a  weary- 
hearted  villager  who  has  come  here  to  draw  has  realized 
the  strength  of  these  words,  to  the  comfort  of  his  soul. 

From  Tysoe  I  passed  along  the  road  skirting  the  foot 
of  Edgehill  till  I  reached  the  Stratford  and  Banbury 
highway,  leading  directly  up  to  the  summit  by  the  "  Sun- 
Rising."  This  was  formerly,  in  the  days  of  stage-coach 
travelling  and  as  far  back  as  1642,  an  inn  of  some  celeb- 
rity, but  it  is  now  used  as  a  farmhouse.  Some  who  are 
now  living  remember  when  it  was  busy  and  prosperous, 
when  "  mine  host "  welcomed  travellers  to  his  friendly 


TO  EDGEHILL.  285 

portals  and  hostlers,  drivers,  farmers  and  wayfarers  made 
the  old  kitchen  or  tap-room  a  scene  of  riotous  joy.  Now 
the  only  signs  of  life  visible  were  an  elderly  lady  in  a 
morn  ing- wrapper  and  curl-papers  writing  at  a  table  near 
an  open  window,  and  a  pretty  and  comely  damsel  stand- 
ing at  another  window  thoughtfully  looking  down  the 
hill  for  some  chance  being  to  come  and  break  the  matin 
monotony.  Evidently  she  did  not  see  a  stranger  every 
day ;  for  when  I  asked  her  if  the  bridle-path  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  road  led  to  the  "  Tower,"  the  rosy  hue 
passed  richly  and  softly  over  her  cream-white  cheeks  and 
she  answered  me  with  a  kindly  tremulous  voice.  I  won- 
der if  such  graceful  maidens  gladdened  the  eyes  and  the 
hearts  of  the  Cavaliers  in  the  days  when  they  frequented 
this  neighborhood  ?  The  bridle-path  runs  along  the  top 
of  the  ridge,  now  across  a  pleasant  clearing  and  now 
through  the  shady  greenwood,  while  the  view  of  the 
wide  plain  beneath  is  very  fine — such,  so  an  old  writer 
says,  as  Lot  beheld  in  the  valley  of  the  Jordan  before 
Sodom  fell.  I  should  have  enjoyed  it  much  more  had 
it  not  been  for  the  swarms  of  flies.  If  Pharaoh  was 
plagued  worse,  I  pity  him.  At  times  I  was  obliged  to 
keep  my  handkerchief  in  constant  motion,  or  I  should 
have  been  eaten  alive.  The  path  is  much  used,  for 
many  initials  and  names  are  cut  in  the  trunks  of  the 
beech  trees  on  either  side.  Frequently  I  heard  the  prat- 
tle and  the  laughter  of  picnickers  and  down  the  hillside 
caught  glimpses  of  groups  of  young  men  and  women. 
Delightful  is  the  charm  of  a  day's  outing  in  the  country, 
and  especially  in  such  a  place  as  this,  where  mossy  banks 
and  crystal  springs  and  deep  shades  and  glorious  vistas 
together  help  to  satisfy  the  mind  and  to  please  the  senses. 


286  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

I  throw  my  blackthorn  on  the  ground,  take  off  my 
strapped  wallet  containing  luncheon  and  guide-books, 
and  sit  down  on  a  grassy  bank  within  the  shadow  of  the 
beeches  to  take  in  the  magnificent  panorama  and  to  think 
upon  the  past  suggested  by  it.  On  fine  days  the  view 
extends — so  it  is  said — into  fourteen  counties.  On  one 
side  are  the  Malverns  and  on  the  other  is  Charnwood 
Forest.  Coventry,  Warwick  and  Stratford,  with  their 
spires  and  towers,  are  visible,  and  on  the  distant  horizon 
rest  the  gray-black  clouds  of  Birmingham.  A  well- 
wooded  plain,  set  with  picturesque  villages  and  farms, 
threaded  by  the  Avon,  enriched  with  fertile  fields  and 
noble  orchards,  traversed  by  ancient  roads  and  bordered 
by  the  glowing  haze  of  a  brilliant  summer  sky !  The  eye 
rarely  beholds  a  more  lovely  or  extensive  landscape  or 
one  in  which  Nature  has  been  more  prodigal  of  her  rich- 
est gifts — not,  indeed,  the  romance  and  the  splendor  of 
the  mountain  and  the  forest,  but  the  quieter  graces  of  a 
low,  level  country  in  which  prosperity  contentedly  smiles 
in  the  sunshine  and  beauty  seems  to  move  under  the 
vision  like  tinted  waves  of  some  wide  emerald  sea.  As 
I  look  upon  the  picture  I  remember  the  word  of  old : 
"  And  God  saw  everything  that  he  had  made,  and,  be- 
hold, it  was  very  good."  Yes,  very  good ;  and  yet  the 
ancient  rabbis  used  to  say  that  "  God  had  taken  of  the 
dust  under  the  throne  of  his  glory  and  cast  it  upon  the 
waters,  which  thus  became  earth."  What,  then,  must  be 
the  land  beyond  the  clouds  ?  If  this  glorious  scene  is 
but  the  shadow  of  the  heavenly  splendor,  what  must  be 
the  substance?  And  yet  down  in  yonder  fields,  now 
lying  so  calm  and  peaceful,  the  angry  and  sinful  pas- 
sions of  man  have  arisen,  brother  has  fought  against 


TO  EDGEHILL.  287 

brother  and  father  against  son,  and  the  land  has  been 
defiled  with  blood. 

In  the  pages  of  Clarendon  may  be  found  the  best  de- 
scription of  the  famous  battle.  Near  where  I  am  now 
sitting  the  king  viewed  the  progress  of  the  struggle.  In 
the  plain  below,  the  Parliamentarians,  under  the  command 
of  the  earl  of  Essex,  were  encamped,  twelve  thousand 
strong.  On  the  heights,  of  about  equal  strength,  were 
the  royal  troops,  one  wing  near  the  Sun-Rising,  the  main 
body  where  the  Tower  now  stands,  and  the  other  wing 
commanding  the  road  to  Kineton.  The  key  of  the  po- 
sition was  thus  in  the  hands  of  the  king ;  and,  had  his 
men  remained  on  the  hill  and  waited  for  Essex  to  attack, 
a  decisive  victory  would  in  all  probability  have  ended 
the  conflict  and  changed  the  course  of  English  history. 
The  Puritans  were  stirred  to  vigor  and  zeal  by  the  ex- 
hortations of  their  ministers.  The  red  horse  cut  in  the 
side  of  the  hill  opposite  Tysoe  became  to  them  "  the 
red  horse  of  the  wrath  of  the  Lord,"  which  he  caused 
"  to  ride  furiously  to  the  ruin  of  the  enemy."  In  the 
neighborhood  the  people,  largely  persuaded  by  the  rebels 
that  the  Cavaliers  were  cruel  and  wicked  and  that  they 
robbed  and  evilly  treated  the  inhabitants  wherever  they 
went,  hid  their  goods  and  sought  to  protect  themselves 
against  the  coming  of  the  king.  "  The  very  smiths  hid 
themselves,  that  they  might  not  be  compelled  to  shoe 
horses."  Through  the  day  the  two  armies  watched  each 
other.  An  October  Sunday,  possibly  the  sound  of  the 
chiming  bells  in  yonder  towers  came  softly  across  the 
plain  and  some  few  pious  souls  on  either  side  prayed 
that  God  would  defend  the  right.  At  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  the  battle  began,  and  the  sun  went  down 

19 


288  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

and  a  thousand  and  half  a  thousand  men  lay  dead  upon 
the  field.  They  were  buried  where  they  fell ;  five  hun- 
dred were  thrown  into  a  pit  near  to  an  elm-clump. 
Neither  side  had  the  victory,  and  neither  side  was  de- 
sirous of  renewing  the  combat.  In  the  cold,  frosty  night 
the  king's  soldiers,  shelterless  and  hungry,  straggled  into 
the  villages  to  beg  for  food,  but,  as  Clarendon  puts  it, 
many  "  were  knocked  in  the  head  by  the  common  peo- 
ple." Ere  long  the  armies  marched  away,  the  ancient 
quiet  returned,  and  the  red  coats  of  the  king's  men  and 
the  orange  scarfs  of  his  enemies  were  seen  no  more. 

It  is  now  an  old  study,  that  seventeenth  century,  and 
most  people  have  long  since  ceased  to  hold  exclusively 
with  either  side,  but  it  is  well  to  remember  that  the  Puri- 
tans had  no  more  a  monopoly  of  the  virtues  of  the  age 
than  had  the  Cavaliers  of  the  vices.  There  were  good 
men  and  bad  men  in  both  parties.  The  bad  we  may 
well  pass  by,  but  among  the  good  none  can  forget  such 
men  as  George  Herbert  and  John  Milton,  the  two  poets 
of  the  period,  nor  Jeremy  Taylor  or  Richard  Baxter, 
two  of  its  most  eminent  divines.  It  is  true  that  Milton 
was  a  Puritan ;  it  is  also  true  that  Milton  describes  the 
saintly  Bishop  Andrewes  entering  paradise  vested  in  the 
robes  of  his  order.  Yet  to  the  churchman  and  the 
royalist  the  bare  thought  of  lifting  up  the  hand  against 
the  Lord's  anointed  was  abhorrent.  Charles  was  the 
king ;  the  crown  had  been  set  upon  his  brow  and  the 
consecrated  oil  had  been  poured  upon  his  head,  remov- 
ing him  from  among  men,  making  him  on  earth  the 
vicegerent  of  God  and  rendering  his  person  sacred  and 
his  will  law.  The  divine  right  of  kings  may  be  set  aside 
now,  but  it  was  held  then,  and  held,  too,  by  many  of  the 


TO  EDGEHILL.  289 

purest  souls  and  the  most  thoughtful  minds  in  England ; 
they,  at  least,  could  not  understand  how  men  dared  to 
resist  the  prince.  Others  besides  them  could  not  un- 
derstand men  who  would  abolish  the  ancient  Church  of 
the  land,  with  its  bishops,  ritual  and  customs,  and  turn 
the  sanctuaries  of  God,  where  beauty  dwelt  with  holi- 
ness and  splendor  cast  its  vestment  upon  righteousness, 
from  temples  of  worship  into  places  of  meeting.  Ser- 
mons were  good,  but  services  were  better;  and  when 
the  Puritan  had  the  power — when  he  had  poured  out 
the  blood  of  the  king  and  the  primate  of  all  England 
on  the  scaffold,  and  thrust  the  bishops  out  of  their  sees 
and  the  parsons  out  of  their  parishes,  and  made  it  crim- 
inal for  any  to  use  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer — then 
were  many  hearts  grieved  and  many  souls  oppressed. 
None  can  ever  tell  the  full  story  of  the  cruelty  and  the 
wrong  which  the  Puritan  wrought  in  those  days.  He 
did  in  the  seventeenth  century  what  the  papist  had  done 
in  the  sixteenth — persecuted  the  Church,  condemned  the 
Liturgy,  exiled  the  clergy.  Rome  and  Geneva  have 
clasped  hands  against  Anglicanism.  No ;  Walker's 
Sufferings  of  the  Clergy  is  quite  as  dependable  as  Neal's 
History  of  the  Puritans,  and  John  Evelyn  is  worth  more 
than  Samuel  Pepys.  If  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  and 
again  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II.,  the  Church  sought  to 
drive  her  adversaries  from  the  land,  she  but  did  that 
which  she  was  forced  to  do  for  her  own  preservation. 
Doubtless  there  was  wrong  on  both  sides,  but  as  of  seed 
cast  in  the  ground  the  bad  perishes  and  the  good  re- 
mains, so  that  which  was  of  evil  among  them  has  passed 
away  and  that  which  was  of  God  abides  even  in  our 
midst. 


290  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

The  country-people  here  do  not  know  much  beyond 
the  facts  that  there  was  once  a  battle  and  that  Oliver 
Cromwell  did  wonderful  things  toward  settling  the 
grievances  of  the  poor.  Some  of  them  have  heard  of 
Julius  Caesar,  for  one  asked  me  the  other  day  which 
came  first  in  English  history,  the  Roman  or  the  Puri- 
tan. The  man  seemed  hurt,  as  though  I  had  detracted 
from  the  fame  of  Oliver,  when  I  told  him  that  the  great 
Commonwealth  man  lived  in  the  century  before  the  last  ; 
he  had  heard  of  him  all  his  life,  and  therefore  thought 
he  was  a  hero  of  far-distant  times.  But  exactly  what 
Cromwell  did  beyond  upsetting  affairs  generally  and 
satisfactorily,  or  what  was  actually  done  at  Edgehill,  the 
men  who  plough  yonder  fields  or  tend  the  sheep  in  these 
pastures  close  by  have  no  idea.  They  *know  some 
ghostly  legends,  though,  and  in  the  dull  October  even- 
ings, when  the  mists  hang  along  the  hillside  and  the 
gray  shadows  overspread  the  plain,  they  will  hurry 
along  these  roads  and  paths,  fearing  and  trembling  lest 
they  should  see  some  of  the  dead  ones  who  haunt  the 
place.  "  Apparitions  and  prodigious  noyses  of  war  and 
battels,"  as  an  old  writer  affirms,  have  been  seen  and 
heard  here ;  and  though  in  a  clear,  warm  August  noon- 
tide it  is  not  so  easy  to  people  the  plain  with  "  incorpo- 
real substances  "  as  it  might  be  in  the  dim  wintry  twi- 
light, yet  there  comes  to  my  mind  an  old  story  told  me 
long  ago  by  one  whose  years  began  before  the  last  cen- 
tury ended,  and  who  knew  from  his  boyhood  every  nook 
and  corner,  every  legend  and  tradition,  of  these  parts. 

Among  those  who  fought  and  fell  in  this  battle — so 
runs  the  story — was  a  knight  of  noble  birth  and  of  brave 
and  loyal  soul.  When  living,  he  had  made  the  welkin 


TO  EDGEHILL.  2QI 

ring  with  his  manly  voice,  and  around  his  hearth  clus- 
tered many  a  true  and  kindred  spirit.  No  stint  of  hos- 
pitality was  there  in  his  day ;  no  lack  of  free  souls  to 
hail  the  baron  of  beef  and  the  tankard  of  mead.  He  is 
said  to  have  been  the  last  gentleman  in  the  neighbor- 
hood who  took  his  greyhounds  and  his  hawk  to  church. 
Such  a  good  man,  beloved  as  he  was  by  all  who  knew 
him  and  having  died  in  the  noblest  cause  for  which 
one  can  die — that  of  king  and  country — ought  to  have 
rested  contentedly  in  his  grave ;  but  no  :  for  many  years 
on  the  anniversary-night  of  the  battle  he  was  seen 
riding  along  the  heights  of  Edgehill  on  a  steed  of  fiery 
hue.  Noiselessly  the  horse  rushed  hither  and  thither, 
and  the  rider — at  times  gesticulating  fiercely  with  his 
sword,  as  though  urging  his  troops  to  the  front,  and  at 
times  spurring  his  beast  and  bending  forward  his  body, 
so  as  to  pass  swiftly  on,  but  never  uttering  or  causing 
sound,  though  clad  in  the  armor  of  an  earthly  warrior — 
had  a  careworn,  shrivelled  visage  which  all  who  saw  it 
said  belonged  to  the  nether  realm.  For  weeks,  till  the 
winter's  rains  washed  them  away,  the  imprints  of  the 
hoofs  in  the  soil  glowed  brightly  in  the  darkness.  Some 
had  seen  them ;  some,  more  venturous  than  others,  had 
tried  to  touch  them,  but  there  was  nothing,  only  they 
shone  clearly  and  imparted  to  the  fingers  a  strange 
trembling  light.  Nor  was  it  only  in  this  place  that  the 
knight  of  Edgehill  appeared :  people  of  reliable  reputa- 
tion declared  that  they  had  seen  him  in  the  market,  both 
at  Stratford  and  at  Shipston,  and  that  he  had  examined 
their  samples  of  grain  and  asked  the  price.  Others  said 
that  he  had  been  seen  kneeling  before  the  altar,  in  the 
church  in  which  he  was  buried,  and  others,  again,  that 


292  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

he  frequented  the  avenue  which  wound  through  his 
park  to  his  ancestral  home.  Of  course  everybody  was 
alarmed.  Old  people  shook  their  heads  and  said  little, 
and  young  folks  cared  not  to  wander  abroad  after  dark. 
Even  the  rude  and  unbelieving  Commonwealth  man 
ceased  his  swaggering  and  said  his  prayers  when  he 
passed  by  any  of  the  haunts  of  the  warrior-soul.  So 
long  as  the  Puritans  ruled  nothing  could  be  done — the 
spirits  are  not  amenable  to  such  as  they — but  years  af- 
ter, when  a  prelate  sat  once  more  in  the  chair  of  St. 
Oswald  at  Worcester,  a  well-remembered  and  successful 
attempt  was  made  to  "  lay  the  ghost." 

One  midnight — so  says  the  legend — the  bishop  and 
the  neighboring  clergy,  accompanied  by  a  large  con- 
course of  people,  proceeded  to  the  church,  near  the  altar 
of  which  was  the  grave  of  the  old  knight,  covered  with 
an  inscribed  stone.  It  was  a  wild  night.  The  rain  fell 
fast,  the  daws  and  owls  screeched  in  the  belfry,  the  light- 
ning flashed  and  the  thunder  rolled  as  though  the  day 
of  doom  had  come,  and  the  wind  roared  angrily  as  it 
shook  the  building  and  swayed  the  tall  elms.  The 
people  began  to  imagine  that  the  powers  of  darkness 
divined  their  purpose  and  were  causing  the  elements 
to  war  against  them,  and  a  number  of  them  waved  yew- 
branches  and  rang  the  bells  to  drive  away  the  evil  ones. 
But  the  storm  raged  as  fiercely  as  ever.  When  the 
bishop,  standing  on  the  altar-steps,  solemnly  adjured  the 
knight  to  appear,  there  was  intense  and  silent  excitement 
as  the  echoes  died  away  amid  the  distant  arches,  and 
every  one  trembled  with  fear  lest  the  mandate  should  be 
obeyed.  They  who  held  the  flaming  torches  stood  as 
though  ready  to  run,  and  even  the  clergy  looked  on 


TO  EDGE  HILL.  293 

with  pallid  faces.  The  charge  was  uttered  again,  and 
then  again,  three  times,  according  to  the  form  prescribed. 
Then  came  a  blinding  flash,  then  a  very  avalanche  of 
thunder-billows,  rattling  like  quickly-fired  artillery,  roar- 
ing like  huge,  breaking  waves  upon  an  ocean-shore ;  the 
wild  wind  swept  through  the  nave,  and,  lo  !  in  an  instant 
all  was  still,  and  there  in  the  midst  of  the  terrified  throng 
stood  the  old  knight,  his  armor  red  with  glowing  fire, 
his  head  bowed  toward  the  ground.  No  one  moved ; 
no  one  had  strength  or  courage  to  run.  The  very  men 
who  over  their  ale  had  sworn  that  they  had  seen  him 
time  and  time  again  were  startled  and  stunned  at  the  ap- 
parition. They  looked  with  awe  akin  to  horror,  and  some 
devoutly  hoped  that  as  a  result  of  England's  sin  the 
power  of  controlling  demons  and  spirits  was  not  taken 
away  from  the  ministers  of  grace. 

At  last  the  old  knight  spoke : 

"  What  would  ye  with  me  ?  Why  have  ye  disturbed 
my  rest  ?" 

"  Because,"  said  one  standing  close  by,  "  thou  canst 
not  sleep  in  peace." 

"  Hath  England  peace  ?"  asked  the  knight. 

"  It  hath,"  the  man  replied.  "  The  king's  son  sits  on 
royal  Charles's  throne ;  the  Church  hath  her  own  again, 
and  loyal  men  till  the  land  as  in  the  old  time." 

"'Tis  well,"  responded  the  knight.  "Then  why 
trouble  ye  me?" 

"  We  fear  to  see  thee  in  the  dismal  shadows,"  another 
said ;  "  we  dread  to  have  one  with  us  who  belongs  to 
another  world." 

"  Thou  thinkest  I  am  worse  than  ye  ?"  said  the  old 
knight,  with  a  scornful  laugh  which  seemed  to  drive  life 


294  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

itself  out  of  some  hearts.  "  I  go  to  church  as  often  as 
any  here." 

"  That  dost  thou,  sir,"  the  bishop  exclaimed,  jubilantly, 
"  but  thou  leavest  thy  heart  at  home." 

This  rejoinder  was  unanswerable,  for  everybody  knows 
that  a  ghost  does  not  take  his  heart  about  with  him.  The 
knight  was  therefore  in  the  power  of  the  bishop,  and  by 
the  law  which  obtains  in  such  matters  was  bound  to  re- 
main wherever  he  was  laid.  As  a  rule,  spirits  thus  sub- 
dued were  consigned  to  the  depths  of  the  Red  Sea, 
where  Pharaoh  and  his  host  abide  in  everlasting  bond- 
age ;  but  sometimes  the  wishes  of  the  ghost  were  con- 
sidered, and  he  was  allowed  to  choose  a  place  for  him- 
self. Frequently  the  ghost  would  select  his  resting-spot 
among  the  roots  of  an  apple  tree  or  under  a  gate-post  or 
a  front  doorstep,  or  near  a  spring  of  water,  or  in  some 
other  strange  and  unexpected  position ;  from  which  we 
gather  that  ghosts  were  facetious  as  well  as  troublesome. 
The  old  knight  saw  his  mistake,  and  bowed  in  token  of 
submission. 

"Where  wilt  thou  that  we  lay  thee?"  asked  the 
bishop. 

"  Give  me  thy  blessing,  reverend  lord,  and  I  will  go 
in  peace,"  the  knight  replied. 

The  blessing  was  given;  the  people  looked  to  the 
spirit,  and  as  they  looked  it  vanished  from  their 
sight.  From  that  hour  one  soul  at  least  remained  at 
rest.  Nobody  ever  saw  or  heard  the  knight  of  Edge- 
hill. >  \gain,  and  doubtless  he  has  long  since  passed  into 
regions  far  from  this  of  ours. 

I  remember  how  anxiously  the  ancient  gentleman  who 
told  me  this  story  sought  to  impress  me  with  its  truth. 


TO  EDGEHILL.  2$$ 

Whether  it  were  in  the  summer  afternoon  as  we  sat  to- 
gether on  the  wooden  bench  under  the  box  tree  in  his 
garden,  or  in  the  winter  evening  around  his  fire  before 
the  candles  were  lighted,  he  would  always  add,  by  way 
of  finally  disposing  of  any  possible  doubt, 

"  There  is  Edgehill,  and  there  was  a  battle ;  and  what 
more  can  any  reasonable  man  need  ?" 

But  time  passes,  and  I  have  yet  miles  to  go  before  my 
day's  jaunt  is  over.  From  the  spot  where  I  have  rested 
for  the  last  half  hour  to  the  Tower  is  only  a  few  min- 
utes' walk.  This  building,  erected  about  the  middle  of 
the  last  century,  marks  the  place  where  the  royal  stand- 
ard stood  on  the  day  of  battle.  It  is  a  sham  ruin,  and 
as  a  sham  ought  to  have  no  place  in  either  heaven  or 
earth.  The  view  from  its  walls  is  splendid,  and,  as  it  is 
a  public-house,  refreshments  as  well  as  relics  can  be  ob- 
tained there.  As  I  got  over  the  stile  from  the  bridle- 
path into  the  road  I  asked  a  man  who  stood  leaning 
against  a  gate  if  the  place  had  any  other  name  than  that 
of  the  "  Tower."  He  looked  at  me  with  grave  stupidity; 
I  repeated  my  question.  A  woman  looked  out  of  a  cot- 
tage door  close  by,  and  said  "  Old  Israel's  deaf,  sir." 
But  even  she  was  not  able  to  give  me  any  information. 

I  wandered  on  along  the  hot  and  dusty  highway,  the 
very  road  on  which  the  king's  army  marched  in  the  dusk 
of  that  October  morning.  On  the  way  to  Warmington, 
close  by,  are  the  remains  of  a  veritable  British  camp. 
Here  one  may  stop  and  picture  the  scenes,  not  of  two 
hundred  years  since,  but  of  two  thousand.  In  th  >e  re- 
mote ages  the  land  was  a  wilderness  and  its  inhabitants 
were  fierce,  savage  and  heathen.  With  bow  and  sharp 
stone-headed  arrows,  and  javelin,  axe  and  club,  they 


296  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

hunted  the  beasts  of  the  forest  or  lay  in  wait  for  and 
struggled  with  their  human  foes.  I  fancy  I  can  see  them 
moving  stealthily  along  through  the  tall  grass  and  watch- 
ing me  with  wild,  restless  eye  from  yonder  bushy  hedge, 
ready  to  spring  upon  me  as  I  stand  here.  This  was 
their  village-home — a  place  of  huts  or  wigwams  made 
of  poles  and  wattled  work  and  thatched  with  rushes  or 
covered  with  sods.  A  hole  in  the  side  of  the  simple 
structure  served  both  as  a  chimney  for  the  smoke  and  as 
a  door  for  the  inmates.  Around  were  rough  palisades 
and  high  earth-banks.  The  valle  and  the  fosse  of  this 
camp  still  remain.  In  this  open  space  the  thick-limbed 
and  skin-clad  warriors,  fearless  of  death  and  cruel  as  the 
wolves  in  the  jungle-like  woodland,  listened  to  the  de- 
cisions of  their  chief  and  prepared  for  battle.  Their 
women,  more  degraded,  worse  clothed  and  dirtier  than 
themselves,  stood  by  to  urge  them  on  to  deeds  of  blood. 
Doubtless  the  unkempt,  brown-skinned  boys  searched 
the  hillside  hereabouts  for  nests  in  the  spring  and  nuts 
in  the  autumn,  and  learned,  as  savages  learn,  by  expo- 
sure and  trial,  the  skill  and  the  habits  of  their  fathers. 
The  soil,  badly  tilled,  supplied  the  family  with  a  few 
roots ;  cows  and  goats,  half  tamed  and  thriving  poorly 
in  captivity,  gave  them  .milk,  and  the  forest  furnished 
them  with  fuel.  The  only  thing  natural  to  us  about  the 
hut  or  the  camp  would  be  the  cat.  Puss  was  there,  as 
happy  and  contented  as  she  was  among  the  Egyptians 
two  thousand  years  earlier,  and  as  she  is  amongst  us  to- 
day. This  ancient  camp  was  admirably  chosen  for  mil- 
itary purposes,  and,  situated,  as  it  is,  at  the  extreme 
point  of  Edgehill,  commands  a  wide  stretch  of  coun- 
try. Now,  even  as  the  bell-tones  gently  wafted  from 


TO  EDGE  HILL.  297 

some  village  church  near  by  proclaim  that  the  cross  has 
triumphed  over  the  old  heathendom,  so  the  soft  green 
robe  which  Nature  has  cast  over  the  place  declares  that 
the  hidden  past  has  been  forgiven  and  that  peace  reigns. 

The  road  down  the  hill  to  Kineton  is  steep,  and  by  a 
notice  on  a  board  at  the  top  bicyclers  are  informed  that 
it  is  dangerous.  In  the  way  I  meet  a  heavily-laden 
wagon  slowly  coming  up  the  hill.  What  ponderous 
wheels !  and  what  mighty  horses !  The  driver  is  clad 
in  corduroys  and  smock-frock,  with  thick  hob-nailed 
boots  on  his  feet  and  a  great  wide-awake  on  his  head. 
His  hair  is  lank  and  long  and  his  stubbled  beard  has 
not  been  cut  for  some  time.  He  walks  beside  the  team, 
his  bending  shoulders  suggesting  hard  work  rather  than 
age,  and  the  loud  smack  of  his  whip,  with  his  "  Coom 
hup,  nu  !"  and  his  whistle,  indicating  both  vigor  and  in- 
terest in  his  work.  The  broiling  sun  pours  fiercely 
down  upon  him,  but  no  sun  could  make  him  browner 
than  he  is  or  cause  the  perspiration  to  drop  more  freely 
from  his  face.  When  I  pass  him,  he  stops  his  wagon, 
getting  a  huge  stone  from  the  roadside  to  put  under  one 
of  the  hind  wheels,  and  asks  the  time  of  day.  It  is  past 
one.  How  far  to  Kineton?  Three  miles  and  a  half 
from  the  Tower — the  best  part  of  three  miles  from 
here. 

"  Dear  me !"  I  say,  "  and  along  that  dry,  unshaded 
road  !  It's  enough  to  roast  one,  such  a  day  as  this." 

"  Us  must  expect  'ot  waythur  this  tiime  o'  yaare,"  he 
replies,  philosophically,  and  leisurely  wiping  his  face  with 
his  large  white-spotted  red  handkerchief. 

"  It's  a  hard  pull  for  your  horses  up  this  hill,"  I 
remark. 


298  THE  HEART  OF  M ERR  IE  ENGLAND. 

"  Them  dunna  miind  it ;  uld  Beetty  aar  ah  goood  un 
to  goo,  and  Buuttarcoop  ahn't  ah  bad  un.  And  gooin' 
hup  ahnt  as  bad  as  gooin'  doon.  Gooin'  doon  'ill  aar 
allus  bad.  Ah  mon  mah  breeak  'is  neeck  gooin'  doon 
'ill,  an'  theen  'ee's  dun  fur." 

I  move  on.  Then  I  hear  the  "  Gee  hup,  uld  gaal," 
"  Pool  awah  theer,  maw  luve,"  and  the  harness  cracks 
and  the  wagon  creaks,  and  on  the  heavy  load  goes  round 
the  turn  in  the  highway  and  up  the  hill.  It  is  not  only 
in  the  moral  sense  that  going  down  hill  is  bad — which 
sense  the  driver's  words  naturally  suggested — but  it  is 
also  bad  physically.  Try  it  in  the  blazing  sunshine  after 
a  walk  of  ten  miles,  for  the  most  part  across  soft  mead- 
ows and  through  shaded  woods.  The  hands  become 
swollen,  the  legs  get  stiff  and  the  feet  feel  as  if  they 
were  going  through  the  toes  of  the  shoes.  This  was  the 
most  uncomfortable  bit  in  my  day's  journey,  but  then 
pleasures  must  be  expected  to  have  their  correlative 
pains,  and  what  is  a  wearisome  tramp  of  a  mile  or  two, 
even  down  hill  and  along  a  sunburnt  road,  to  compare 
with  the  delights  of  a  stroll  through  the  country-side  ? 
Besides,  Providence  is  generally  kind  under  such  cir- 
cumstances: some  vehicle  drives  up  with  the  horse's 
head  in  the  right  direction,  and  the  cheery  welcome  to  a 
lift  makes  one  forget  the  heat  and  the  toil.  Here  is  my 
chance  coming — a  chaise  with  an  elderly  gentleman,  fat, 
and  therefore  good-natured.  Is  he  going  far  my  way  ? 
I  have  not  time  to  ask,  for  he  stops  his  pony  and  in- 
quires if  I  am  going  to  Kineton.  The  very  place,  and 
off  we  drive  together.  He  is  from  Banbury.  Do  I 
know  Banbury?  Rather:  I  ate  Banbury  cakes  at  the 
time  I  began  to  ride  to  Banbury  Cross.  It  is  a  prosper- 


TO  EDGEHILL.  299 

ous  town,  but  in  old  days  it  was  awfully  Puritan.  The 
story  goes  that  a  man  there  of  that  persuasion  once 
hanged  his  cat  on  Monday  for  killing  a  mouse  on  Sun- 
day. The  church  has  no  steeple,  but  the  cheese  has  a 
reputation  centuries  old ;  Camden  implies  that  it  was 
good,  but  Shakespeare  makes  Bardolph  speak  of  it  as 
though  it  were  thin  and  soft.  No ;  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  visit  the  place  this  time.  I  know  something  of  its 
history :  the  elderly  gentleman  is  disposed  to  antiquity 
as  well  as  to  adiposity.  There  was  once  a  battle  fought 
there  in  early  Saxon  times — that  of  the  Wessex  men 
against  the  Britons — about  A.  D.  550?  Yes.  So  some 
have  said,  but  it  was  in  Wiltshire,  and  not  here — at  By- 
ran-byrig,  and  not  at  Banes-byrig.  I  know  nothing  about 
that,  but  I  am  right  in  charging  the  Parliamentarians 
with  pulling  down  the  ancient  castle  after  the  royalists 
had  held  it  under  siege  for  three  months,  and  before 
they  surrendered  were  reduced  to  such  straits  that  they 
ate  up  all  their  horses  but  two.  People  drive  in  for 
miles  to  the  fair,  where,  among  other  things,  they  get 
some  of  the  best  beef  and  the  strongest  ale  in  the 
country  and  see  the  biggest  woman  in  the  world  and 
the  only  original  Tom  Thumb.  The  latter  individual 
seems  to  be  ubiquitous  and  sempiternal.  I  have  seen 
the  "  only  original "  in  my  day  on  both  sides  of  the  At- 
lantic ;  old  folks  have  told  me  that  they  saw  him  three- 
quarters  of  a  century  earlier  than  I  did ;  a  ballad  of  the 
reign  of  Charles  I.  speaks  of  him  as  a  hero  of  King  Ar- 
thur's time,  when  he  was  swallowed  by  a  cow,  tumbled 
into  a  pudding,  and  was  finally  eaten  by  a  giant ;  a  village 
in  Rutlandshire  claims  to  be  his  birthplace  and  declares 
that  he  was  served  up  in  a  royal  pie ;  and  lastly  the  folk- 


300  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

lorists  come  in  and  say  that  the  whole  story  is  a  myth 
of  Northern  origin.  Any  way,  they  had  the  little  fellow 
at  Banbury  Fair — had  him  for  years — and  the  farmers 
and  the  gamekeepers,  dressed  up  in  their  Sunday  vel- 
veteen, and  the  laborers  and  the  laborers'  wives,  and 
young  men  and  young  women,  also  dressed  up  in  their 
best,  used  to  look  upon  him  with  the  greatest  interest 
and  believe  all  that  the  showman  said  concerning  him. 

So,  chatting  merrily  about  one  thing  and  another,  we 
jogged  along  the  road  to  Kineton. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

©bet  tfje  (Eountrg. 

"  And  the  summer  day  ended,  for  late  or  long 
Every  day  weareth  to  evensong." 

WE  found  the  little  old-fashioned  place  all  astir.  It  was 
the  day  of  the  annual  flower-show,  and  the  streets  were 
gay  with  flags  and  noisy  with  the  rattling  of  traps  and 
wagonettes  over  the  pebbles  and  the  chattering  of  vis- 
itors from  the  neighboring  towns  and  villages.  There  is 
not,  as  a  rule,  much  excitement  in  such  secluded  dis- 
tricts, but  the  people  somehow  or  other  manage  to 
make  the  most  of  life  and  to  enjoy  themselves.  The 
"Swan"  was  filled  with  guests;  the  stables  were  crowded 
with  horses  and  the  tap-room  was  crammed  with  holi- 
day-making and  beer-drinking  swains.  Boniface — good- 
tempered,  sleek,  shrewd  Boniface — was  bustling  about 
and  making  strenuous  efforts  to  supply,  and  no  doubt 
to  suggest,  the  wants  of  his  customers.  On  one  side  of 
the  gateway  was  a  little  window  or  wicket  through 
which  the  crowd  who  could  not  get  indoors  or  who 
preferred  the  fresh  air  obtained  a  continual  stream  of 
brown  mugs  filled  with  foaming  ale.  Sounds  of  loud 
merriment,  the  scraping  of  a  violin  and  fragments  of  a 
rude  song  came  through  the  open  casement  with  the  red 
curtains  and  the  brass  bars.  Here  is  a  boy  with  a  pint- 

301 


302  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

pot  in  one  hand  and  in  the  other  a  black  clay  pipe  filled 
with  the  vilest-smelling  tobacco  trying  to  emulate  the 
older  ones  around  him,  but  the  older  ones  say  he  ought 
to  be  thrashed  and  sent  home  to  bed ;  so  that  he  gets 
but  poor  encouragement.  There,  a  half-drunken  fellow 
kicks  a  poor  cur  out  of  his  way,  and  the  wretched  beast 
yelps  and  the  jackdaw  in  the  cage  screams.  All  is  bus- 
tle and  confusion,  and  the  signs  are  that  both  the  devil 
and  Boniface  will  make  a  successful  day  of  it;  which 
juxtaposition  of  the  Prince  of  Darkness  and  a  man 
duly  licensed  by  law  to  make  his  living  in  this  way  by 
no  means  implies  that  there  is  a  league  between  them  or 
that  the  one  is  as  bad  as  the  other.  As  I  see  the  people 
of  the  inn  driving  their  business  I  think  of  that  scene  in 
Piers  the  Ploughman  where  Glutton,  on  the  way  to  church, 
is  stopped  by  the  brewster,  who  upsets  his  good  inten- 
tions with  the  allurements  of  good  ale,  "note  spices" 
and  the  company  of  such  choice  spirits  as  Watte  the  war- 
rener,  Tymme  the  tinker  and  Hikke  the  hakeneyman. 

I  am  shown  into  the  parlor,  my  stout  kindly  friend 
having  left  me  to  my  own  devices.  The  house  is  old, 
with  the  yard,  stables  and  wagonsheds  usually  belonging 
to  hostelries  of  the  kind.  Inside  there  are  narrow  pas- 
sages, winding  stairs,  dark  recesses  and  rooms  with  low 
ceilings  and  mysterious-looking  cupboards  and  closets. 
Care  is  needed  lest  one  stumble  over  unexpected  steps 
or  old  lumber  partly  hid  in  the  prevailing  gloom.  In 
the  room  in  which  I  find  myself  are  a  long  table,  a  piano 
and  some  pictures  on  the  wall  of  racehorses  and  stiflf- 
looking  houses.  I  ask  for  dinner,  and  the  hostess,  stout 
and  mirthful — she  seemed  to  be  made  of  a  smile  from 
head  to  foot,  a  huge  ripple — skilfully  navigates  me 


OVER    THE   COUNTRY.  303 

through  dark  and  devious  ways  to  a  long  room  up 
stairs.  Here  she  explains  to  me  that  the  day  is  a  bad 
one  for  a  warm  dinner,  but  she  adds,  pointing  to  the 
table  spread  down  the  middle  of  the  room,  that  I  can 
make  a  meal  out  of  the  cricket-club  supper.  Possibly. 
At  one  end  of  the  table  is  a  massive  piece  of  boiled 
beef,  at  the  other  a  gigantic  ham,  and  at  respectable  in- 
tervals between  poultry,  pies,  cheese,  bread,  etc.  My 
dinner  will  not  be  missed.  Having  seated  me  in  a  chair, 
she  puts  into  my  hands  implements  in  dimensions  some- 
thing akin  to  a  scythe  and  a  pitchfork  and  bids  me  help 
myself  to  the  beef  or  the  ham.  Then  I  am  left  alone — 
in  that  long  room  with  that  mighty  dinner.  Neither  cat 
nor  dog  shares  my  solitude;  I  can  eat  and  drink  in 
peace.  There  is  a  horseshoe  over  the  door ;  evidently, 
the  people  believe  in  witches.  I  proceed  with  my  col- 
lation and  at  the  same  time  picture  the  scene  which  the 
room  will  present  in  the  course  of  a  few  hours,  when 
the  hungry  cricketers  come  in  for  their  beef  and  beer. 
The  twofold  process  refreshes  me  both  in  body  and  in 
mind.  I  throw  myself  back  in  the  great  arm-chair  and 
half  fancy  I  should  like  to  be  with  the  merry  company. 
What  speeches  and  what  songs !  The  din  of  applause, 
of  thumping  the  table,  clapping  hands  and  stamping  the 
floor,  will  be  deafening.  There  will  be  jokes  and  stories 
which  will  bring  out  the  side-splitting  laugh  and  the 
vigorous  "  Hear !  hear !"  And  the  fun  will  go  on  away 
into  the  night,  till  one  and  another  will  have  slipped 
under  the  table  or  fallen  over  asleep  or  been  led  or 
wheeled  off  home.  Then,  about  midnight — the  magis- 
trates allowing  an  additional  hour  after  the  closing-time 
usual  on  ordinary  occasions — Boniface  will  turn  into  the 


304  THE   HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

street  those  who  are  left,  extinguish  the  lights  and  lock 
the  doors. 

I  spring  up  from  the  chair  and  the  dream,  for  I  have 
no  desire  to  pass  through  a  metamorphosis  of  that  kind, 
and  after  satisfying  the  host's  very  moderate  charges  I 
start  out  to  see  the  town.  There  is  some  dispute  as  to 
the  etymology  of  its  name.  Some  say  it  was  so  called 
from  its  extensive  market  of  kine ;  others  hold  that  it 
should  be  "  King,"  and  not  "  Kine,"  from  the  fact  that 
here  was  formerly  a  royal  palace  or  castle,  and  others, 
again,  affirm  that  it  was  named  after  St.  Keyne,  the  pat- 
ron-saint of  wells  in  general,  and  of  one  near  the  site 
of  this  palace  in  particular.  These  conjectures  suggest 
curious  questions -of  the  origin  and  the  history  of  the 
town  into  which  one  may  not  safely  enter ;  only,  as  I 
walk  slowly  through  the  unpaved  street,  I  fancy  I  see 
here  an  illustration  of  a  "  road-town."  Many  more  such 
come  to  mind  as  I  think  of  this  one.  The  hamlets  of 
Britain  and  of  early  England,  as  of  all  primitive  coun- 
tries, were  mostly  independent  and  isolated  settlements 
in  the  wilderness,  perhaps  on  the  banks  of  a  brook,  per- 
haps in  the  midst  of  a  dense  forest.  A  clearing  was 
made  and  habitations  simple  in  structure  and  few  in 
number  were  built.  As  time  went  on  and  the  village 
grew  in  size  and  importance  communication  with  other 
places  beyond  what  a  mere  footpath  would  afford  became 
imperative,  and  highways  were  accordingly  cut  through 
the  intervening  region.  The  town  thus  preceded  the 
road,  but,  the  road  being  made,  other  towns  would 
spring  up  at  desirable  points  along  its  course,  a  string 
of  cottages  stretching  for  some  distance  on  both  sides. 
As  these,  in  turn,  increased  in  numbers  and  in  conse- 


OVER    THE   COUNTRY.  305 

quence,  other  ways  from  neighboring  hamlets  would  be 
made  through  the  forest  directly  to  them,  and  then  the 
village  would  naturally  extend  itself  along  the  new  way. 
In  these  instances  the  road  would  precede  the  town. 
,  The  church,  yellow  and  ancient  and  of  mingled  Early 
English  and  Perpendicular  work,  with  its  "  acre "  of 
lichen-covered  tombstones  and  grass-grown  graves, 
stands  in  the  midst  of  the  place,  and  has  a  low  square 
tower,  a  fine  doorway  and  the  effigy  of  a  priest.  There 
are  a  few  stone  houses,  some  of  them  of  considerable 
age  and  with  their  moulded  windows,  clustered  chim- 
neys and  heavy  walls  suggesting  stories  of  days  and 
people  of  whom  one  would  fain  know  something.  Far- 
ther on  the  way  to  Warwick,  at  the  west  end  of  the 
town,  is  the  grammar-school,  a  modern  and  small  insti- 
tution, at  the  front  gate  of  which,  his  arms  akimbo,  was 
whistling  lazily  a  small  boy  with  red-brown  face  and 
trencher-cap.  He  hoped  to  go  to  the  flower-show  by 
and  by — perhaps  as  soon  as  he  got  over  the  Pons 
Asinorum  or  the  Passive  Voice  of  TVTCTCO.  I  love  boys 
— that  is  to  say,  boys  that  are  boys  and  not  your  pre- 
cocious boy-men — and  this  little  fellow  appears  to  be 
after  my  own  heart.  Play  cricket,  pull  an  oar  and  ram- 
ble through  the  woods  and  by  the  brookside,  my  lad,  as 
well  as  pore  over  Euclid  and  ^Esop,  and  you  will  make 
your  way  in  the  world.  Boys  are  to  be  found  every- 
where— good  boys  and  bad  boys — but  there  is  no  more 
beautiful  sight  under  God's  sun  than  the  face  of  a  pure, 
upright,  soulful  lad  the  blush  of  whose  cheek  sin  has 
not  touched  and  whose  eye  is  bright  with  innocence  and 
with  unconscious  courage.  The  boy  bobs  his  head  re- 
spectfully as  I  pass  by,  and  I  turn  back  to  the  side  street 


306  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

leading  to  the  Tysoe  road,  and  soon  come  to  the  place 
of  the  day's  festivities. 

Three  thousand  miles  away  and  in  the  depth  of  a 
Western  winter,  the  freezing  wind  sweeping  wildly  over 
the  fields  of  stainless  snow  and  through  the  bare  trees, 
making  the  dreary,  bitterly-cold  night  more  than  ever 
Arctic-like,  that  scene,  among  others,  presents  itself  to 
my  mind  clearly  and  pleasantly.  In  a  large  field  by  the 
side  of  the  road  and  under  great  widespreading  trees  were 
erected  several  tents  and  booths.  Beyond,  a  gentle- 
man's house,  with  the  rich  velvety  lawns  set  with  shrub- 
bery and  flower-plots  so  common  in  England,  appeared 
in  extremely  pretty  form.  The  place  was  gay  with  flags 
and  with  brightly-dressed  swains  and  lasses.  Boys  and 
girls  were  playing  here  and  there ;  swings  and  merry- 
go-rounds  were  going;  hucksters  and  toy-men  were 
crying  their  wares  ;  from  the  steps  of  his  wagon-house 
Cheap  John  was  holding  forth  upon  the  merits  of  a 
twenty-four-bladed  knife  of  the  best  Sheffield  make,  all 
for  a  shilling — warranted  pure  steel,  or  possibly  he  may 
have  said  pure  of  steel ;  old  folks  were  leaning  against 
the  gates  or  the  fences  gossiping,  and  a  very  good 
brass  band  discoursed  pleasant  music  in  short  and  suit- 
able fragments.  The  village  was  too  small  to  attract  a 
wild-beast  show  or  even  a  miniature  circus,  and  so  were 
absent  two  of  the  greatest  pleasures  an  English  country 
crowd  can  have — viz.,  that  of  seeing  the  lions  feed,  and 
that  of  listening  to  the  stale  witticisms  of  the  clown. 
Even  the  "  Punch-and-Judy  "  man — the  most  popular 
dramatic  performer  in  the  British  Isles — was  not  there. 

The  people,  however,  were  themselves  an  interesting 
study.  Here  was  Long  Tim,  the  sturdy  wagoner,  with 


OVER    THE   COUNTRY.  307 

his  Sunday  shoes,  brown  trousers,  red  vest  and  black 
coat — the  coat  much  too  short  in  the  sleeves  and  too 
tight  in  the  back — and  with  him  were  his  good  wife  and 
seven  of  his  boys  and  girls,  the  other  three  being  left  at 
home  with  "  Granny."  Never-sweat  Dave  strutted  about 
with  a  bunch  of  ribbons  tied  in  his  beehive-shaped  hat, 
and  with  an  imitation  silver  chain  with  an  imitation 
bunch  of  seals  and  keys  adorning  his  once-white  vest. 
He  had  a  cane  and  kept  his  eye  on  Mollie,  who  in  a 
group  of  giggling  servant-girls  was  the  most  remark- 
able for  the  length  of  her  nose  and  for  the  gay  scarf 
across  her  shoulders.  Several  strangers  with  the  grime 
of  "  Smoky  Brum "  inlaid  in  the  lines  of  hands  and 
face  and  under  their  finger-nails  were  entertaining 
Hodge  and  his  friends  with  stories  of  the  town  and 
with  jokes  without  any  point.  There  was  a  delightful 
air  of  rustic  simplicity  about  the  whole  thing,  and 
one  could  well  say  with  Thomson, 

"  thus  they  rejoice,  nor  think 
That  with  to-morrow's  sun  their  annual  toil 
Begins  again  the  never-ceasing  round." 

The  local  gentry  and  the  clergy  intermingled  with  con- 
siderable freedom  among  the  villagers,  for,  though  the 
miserable  democratic  spirit  of  the  age  has  crept  like  the 
sin-tempting  serpent  of  old  even  into  such  Edens  as 
this,  men  have  not  altogether  forgotten  that  it  is  equal- 
ly an  honor  for  man  to  respect  his  betters  and  to  treat 
kindly  his  inferiors.  Ruskin  says  somewhere — I  think 
it  is  in  his  Stones  of  Venice — that  the  secret  of  the  pres- 
ent social  discontent  lies  in  the  workman  having  been 
reduced  to  a  sort  of  machine  set  to  reproduce  a  given 


308  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

copy  exactly  and  without  variation — possibly,  for  in- 
stance, to  do.  nothing  but  make  heads  of  pins  or  to  do 
nothing  but  sharpen  their  points — and  thus,  all  invention 
and  consequent  manliness  having  been  destroyed,  he 
takes  no  pleasure  in  his  task,  but  labors  mechanically 
and  frets  his  soul  against  all  who  are  not  in  the  like 
state  of  slavery.  Hence  the  centres  of  rebellion  against 
society  are  to  be  found  in  manufacturing  towns,  in  such 
as  Birmingham,  where  both  masters  and  men  work  like 
convicts  in  the  galleys  and  drag  through  a  monotony  of 
existence  fatal  to  all  nobility  of  soul  or  health  of  mind. 
In  the  rural  districts  there  is  more  variety  of  employ- 
ment, more  personal  interest  demanded,  and  therefore 
more  pleasure  in  the  daily  toil.  That  red-faced,  thick- 
set fellow  leaning  over  the  mound — as  they  call  a  fence 
in  this  neighborhood — and  listening  to  a  dingy  Black- 
Country  man,  will  take  a  pride  and  a  delight  in  shearing 
the  sheep,  ploughing  the  land  and  clipping  the  hedges. 
Possibly  agitators  have  persuaded  him  that  he  is  an  ill- 
used  animal,  oppressed  and  wronged  by  those  who  are 
over  him,  but  there  is  more  change  in  his  life,  more  op- 
portunity of  ingenuity  and  invention,  more  enjoyment 
of  rugged  health  and  Nature's  gifts,  than  fall  to  the  lot 
of  most  men  in  a  higher  sphere  of  life.  If  I  wanted  to 
find  real  happiness,  I  should  not  go  to  the  palaces  of 
cedar  or  the  homes  of  the  city-people,  but  to  the  stall 
of  the  apple-woman  or  the  cottage  of  the  farm-laborer. 
Here  I  should  not  expect  to  find  high  intelligence  or 
extensive  learning,  but  I  should  find  a  fuller  appre- 
ciation of  the  joys  and  the  pleasures  of  this  world,  few 
though  they  might  be,  and  an  inspiriting  looking  forward 
to  those  of  the  world  to  come.  The  people  walking 


OVER    THE   COUNTRY.  309 

about  these  grounds  have  in  their  faces  that  which  in- 
dicates the  possession  of  a  happy  soul.  And  doubtless, 
when  the  parson  comes  among  them,  he  will  add  to  their 
delight  by  his  encouraging  nod,  his  kindly  word  or  his 
cheerful  smile  to  one  and  another. 

In  the  tents  are  flowers  worthy  of  this  land  of  roses 
and  dahlias,  and  vegetables  vast  in  size  and  suggestive 
of  epicurean  joys.  It  is  pleasing  to  see  the  interest  every 
one  in  England  takes  in  such  things.  Flowers  grow 
there  in  such  abundance  and  reach  such  perfection  as  to 
excite  the  surprise  of  the  stranger.  In  the  houses  even 
of  the  lower  classes  some  attempt  is  made  at  their  culti- 
vation and  display,  and  many  a  woman  points  with  pride 
to  a  scented  geranium  or  a  pot  of  common  musk.  The 
country-side  is  filled  with  wild  flowers ;  the  banks,  with 
primroses  and  violets ;  the  hedges,  with  May-bloom  and 
dog-roses  ;  and  the  meadows,  with  cowslips,  buttercups 
and  daisies.  The  peasantry  are  encouraged  in  their  love 
for  flowers  by  these  local  shows ;  and,  though  some  may 
think  more  of  the  possible  prize  than  of  either  Nature 
or  the  beautiful,  or  aught  else,  yet  the  greater  number 
have  a  genuine  affection  for  and  a  justifiable  pride  in 
their  gardens  and  the  fruits  thereof.  See  how  carefully 
they  watch  the  pet  flower,  the  table  of  cut  roses  and 
dahlias,  the  box  of  mignonette  and  the  vase  of  carna- 
tions, lest  any  profane  hand  should  touch  them  and  mar 
their  loveliness  or  rob  them  of  their  fragrance !  How 
they  watch  the  countenance  of  the  visitor  for  some  sign 
of  approval,  some  lighting  up  of  the  face  which  will 
show  his  surprise  at  the  perfect  object  before  him !  Its 
color,  form,  size,  nature,  habits  and  history  will  be  spoken 
of  and  told  so  soon  as  you  venture  to  express  an  interest 


310  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND, 

in  it.  The  good  man  will  tell  you  from  where  he  got 
the  seed  or  the  slip,  what  kind  of  soil  he  put  it  in,  how 
many  times  he  nearly  lost  the  fruit  of  his  efforts  through 
the  frost,  the  excessive  rain  or  the  ubiquitous  and  mis- 
chievous boy,  and  his  confidence  that  except  in  London 
itself  nothing  finer  could  be  had  in  the  land.  Why  Lon- 
don is  excepted  I  do  not  know,  unless  it  be  for  its  vague- 
ness and  mystery  to  country-people.  His  hope  is  now 
to  get  the  first  prize,  and  by  and  by  to  find  a  place  in 
the  squire's  garden  for  his  eldest  son,  who  loves  flowers 
with  all  his  heart  and  can  do  a  good  day's  work  along- 
side of  any  lad  of  his  own  age  in  the  village,  and  with  as 
good  a  heart  too.  Few  here  have  heard  the  legends  of 
Narcissus  and  Hyacinthus  as  told  by  Ovid,  or  know  that 
once  the  white  rose  tried  to  outrival  the  pure  paleness  of 
Sappho  and  blushed  for  every  failure, hence  the  red;  but 
their  round  faces  broaden  under  the  inspiration  of  the 
hour,  and  their  affectionate  interest  creates  a  rude  but 
genuine  eloquence. 

The  people  are  evidently  here  for  more  than  seeing 
flowers  and  vegetables.  They  move  about  over  the 
sward  and  under  the  trees  in  a  sort  of  rhythmical  meas- 
ure to  the  music  of  the  band,  or  loll  upon  the  grass  in 
companies  of  twos  and  threes.  Children  toot  with  horns 
and  play  with  whistles,  and  everybody  is  on  pleasure 
bent.  Fairs  and  wakes  similar  to  this  gathering  have 
been  held  here  for  centuries,  and  ages  back  they  who 
now  sleep  in  the  old  churchyard  up  in  the  town  took 
their  part  in  them  as  gayly  and  as  merrily  as  do  the 
free-souled  folk  of  to-day.  Some  of  the  young  fellows 
will  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon  handle  a  quoit  or  a 
bat,  and  later  on  the  largest  of  the  tents  will  be  cleared  for 


OVER    THE  COUNTRY.  31 1 

a  dance.  Possibly  one  reason  why  there  is  not  so  much 
heartiness  in  the  pastimes  of  this  generation  as  there 
was  in  the  sports  of  past  ages  lies  in  the  rapid  increase 
of  population.  A  crowd  up  to  a  certain  point  is  neces- 
sary ;  beyond  that  it  hinders  genuine  fun.  A  great  mul- 
titude uncontrollable  and  made  up  largely  of  strangers, 
as  great  multitudes  are,  can  be  amused  only  as  the  spec- 
tator is  amused :  it  cannot  amuse  itself  in  any  true  and 
thorough  way.  In  a  small  place  such  as  this  the  old- 
time  conditions  to  some  extent  prevail,  and,  as  the  num- 
ber of  people  is  not  too  great  to  prevent  them  from 
knowing  one  another  or  to  dampen  their  feelings,  each 
is  necessary  to  the  common  games  and  sports,  and  each 
enters  into  them.  For  some  time  to  come  the  effects  of 
to-day  will  be  felt  in  pleasant  recollections,  and  probably, 
also,  in  unpleasant  stiffnesses,  bruises  and  headaches. 
But  my  time  is  short,  and  I  am  able  only  to  take  a 
walk  and  a  look  around,  to  speak  to  one  or  two  and 
then  hasten  on  my  way. 

I  continued  my  journey  along  the  road  toward  Oxhill, 
a  tiny  village  four  miles  from  Kineton.  For  a  good  part 
of  the  way  the  road  runs  across  open  fields,  here  and 
there  passing  old  farmhouses.  These  houses  are  built 
solidly  of  stone,  the  gable-end  and  blind-wall  mostly  to 
the  road,  and  with  bits  of  garden  in  the  unused  front  yard 
and  the  court  at  the  back.  In  the  windows  are  flowers, 
and  over  the  doorway  jasmine  and  honeysuckle.  It  was 
pleasant  to  hear  the  cackling  of  poultry  and  the  cooing 
of  pigeons,  nor  did  the  watchdog  lying  grimly  near  the 
well  scarcely  prick  up  his  ears  at  the  sound  of  footsteps, 
though  doubtless  the  first  tread  off  the  public  path  would 
have  brought  forth  the  warning  bark.  Nailed  to  one  of 


312  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

the  barns  were  dead  weasels,  stoats,  rats  and  owls.  At 
one  gate  a  women  with  a  sun-bonnet  in  her  hand  stood 
watching  a  boy  holding  a  guinea-pig  by  a  string  tied  to 
one  of  its  legs.  The  little  animal  was  not  very  lively, 
and  nibbled  at  a  cabbage-leaf  as  though  it  were  tired  of 
the  warm  sunshine,  its  master  and  everything  else.  The 
woman  courtesied  as  I  went  by — possibly  as  much  for 
want  of  knowing  what  else  to  do  as  for  respect;  the  boy 
and  the  guinea-pig,  not  having  either  curiosity  or  rever- 
ence for  the  clergy,  kept  on  with  their  several  occupa- 
tions. 

Each  of  these  solitary  houses  has  its  own  history — 
possibly  only  the  quiet,  uneventful  history  common  to 
such,  yet  one  would  give  much  to  read  the  past  of  any 
habitation  where  man  has  dwelt,  and  to  learn  the  pas- 
sions, the  hopes  and  the  achievements  of  those  who  have 
occupied  or  been  associated  with  them.  Every  life  is  in- 
teresting, every  building  instructive.  The  strong  walls, 
the  heavy  doors  and  the  narrow  mullioned  windows  tell 
of  more  than  defence  against  the  weather :  in  days  not 
so  long  since  a  lonely  farmhouse  needed  protection 
against  the  tramp  and  the  robber,  just  as  in  remoter 
times  it  had  to  be  guarded  against  thieves,  who  more 
by  force  than  by  subtility  took  possession  of  that  which 
they  desired.  Some  of  these  were  built  when  the  recol- 
lections were  still  rife  of  people  not  only  spoiled  of 
their  goods,  but  also  turned  out  of  their  houses,  and  fre- 
quently maltreated  and  brutally  murdered.  Now  the 
queen's  peace  is  kept  from  one  end  of  the  land  to  the 
other,  and  men  can  lie  down  in  confidence  and  sleep  in 
safety.  There  are  no  gallows  by  the  wayside  with  felons 
hanging  thereon  to  intimidate  the  evilly  disposed  and  to 


OVER    THE   COUNTRY.  313 

frighten  the  superstitious;  nevertheless,  the  law  has  a 
strong  arm — stronger  than  the  oak  gate  or  the  spiked 
palisade,  and  more  to  be  dreaded  for  its  moral  than  for 
its  physical  effects.  The  bushes  and  the  flowers  in  the 
garden,  and  the  pigs  and  the  poultry,  the  calves  and  the 
ducks,  in  the  yard,  indicate  restfulness  and  somehow  or 
other  suggest  happiness.  I  stand  and  wonder  if  the 
people  who  live  there  unannoyed  and  unperplexed  by 
much  that  worries — even  as  a  savage  dog  worries  the 
sheep — the  souls  of  people  in  busier  spheres  are  really 
content  and  joyful.  At  any  rate,  they  have  a  better 
chance  of  being  so;  only,  such  virtues  depend  more 
upon  the  self  than  upon  the  surroundings.  I  walk 
slowly  along  and  think  it  over,  at  the  same  time  re- 
gretting that  the  "  Elegy  "  has  been  quoted  ad  nauseam 
and  that  the  season  of  blackberries  is  not  yet. 

Many  young  people  pass  me  on  their  way  to  the 
flower-show  at  Kineton,  some  walking  and  some  driving. 
All  are  dressed  in  their  best  and  their  gayest,  the  taste 
for  sober  colors  not  having  reached  this  neighborhood. 
It  is  a  relief  to  see  a  man  in  something  else  than  an  un- 
dertaker's costume,  even  though  he  approach  more 
nearly  to  Nature's  tints  and  hues.  The  girls,  with 
scarcely  an  exception,  are  fresh,  rosy,  plump  and  rugged, 
the  pictures  of  sturdy  health,  but  they  are  not,  as  a  rule, 
more  than  good-looking.  The  refined,  delicate  sylph  is 
rare  in  England ;  the  women  are  mostly  of  the  tradi- 
tional apple-dumpling  order.  Dark  hair  seems  to  be 
more  common  nowadays  than  formerly,  but  some  of 
these  have  the  blue  eyes  and  the  flaxen  hair  said  to  indi- 
cate Saxon  lineage,  and  some  have  locks  worthy  of  the 
Virgin  Queen  herself. 


THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

A  mile  and  a  half  beyond  Oxhill  is  Whatcote,  a  drowsy 
little  place  with  a  quaint  old  church.  It  is  called  "  Qua- 
tercote  "  in  Doomsday,  and  for  some  time  owned  as  its 
lord  the  abbot  of  Westminster.  In  the  church  is  a  me- 
morial to  a  John  Davenport  who  died  in  1668,  in  the  one 
hundred  and  first  year  of  his  age,  after  having  been  rec- 
tor of  the  parish  for  seventy  years  and  six  months.  The 
shaft  of  the  ancient  cross  in  the  churchyard  is  now  sur- 
mounted with  a  sundial,  which  of  itself  in  a  twofold  sense 
indicates  a  change  of  time.  The  bells  in  the  tower  are 
said  to  be  ancient  and  worthy  of  notice.  Most  of  the 
villages  around  are  of  Saxon — or,  to  speak  more  cor- 
rectly, of  Early  English — origin.  The  centuries  have 
not  disturbed  them ;  they  slumber  even  in  this  age  of 
rush  and  excitement.  Once  in  a  while  a  cottage  is 
newly  thatched  and  somebody  buys  a  bedstead  or  a 
table,  but  little  else  occurs  from  one  year's  end  to  the 
other  to  disturb  the  minds  of  the  people.  In  a  very  long 
time  a  funeral  or  a  wedding  happens — possibly  an  elec- 
tion or  an  auction ;  and  these  are  epochs  from  which 
events  are  dated — "  Six  years  after  Luke  Lemons  died  " 
or  "  Four  years  after  the  fire,"  the  fire  having  been  the 
burning  of  two  wheatricks  and  the  roof  of  a  barn.  A 
stranger  furnishes  material  for  several  hours'  wondering 
gossip — who  he  is,  whence  he  comes  and  whither  he 
goes ;  if  he  has  high  heels  to  his  boots  or  a  string  to 
his  hat ;  what  he  is  doing  in  these  parts,  and  if  he  is 
likely  to  be  anybody's  relation.  As  he  passes  along  the 
road 'the  women  run  to  the  door  or  to  the  garden  gate 
and  look  wistfully  after  him ;  the  old  man  shelling  beans 
on  the  porch  steps  stops,  rubs  his  eyes,  lifts  his  hat  and 
wipes  his  brow;  and  the  children  jump  up  from  their 


OVER    THE   COUNTRY.  315 

play  in  the  dust,  and,  while  some  stand  nibbling  the  cor- 
ner of  an  apron  or  a  pinafore,  others  run  away  and  fetch 
mother  to  see  the  phenomenon.  If  you  speak  to  any  one, 
there  is  no  sign  in  his  face  of  the  slightest  interest  in 
you ;  walking  on,  you  may  see  scarcely  man  or  woman, 
but  look  back  suddenly,  and  you  catch  sight  of  a  dozen 
heads  of  all  ages  eagerly  peeping  round  hedge-corners 
or  out  of  doors  and  windows  to  watch  you  and,  if  possible, 
to  solve  your  mystery.  The  children  are  rather  shy  than 
rude,  and  as  likely  as  not  are  off  like  a  shot  the  moment 
you  stop  to  speak  to  them.  Rosy,  rough-haired,  chubby 
youngsters,  dirty,  every  one  of  them,  with  clean  dirt,  two 
of  them  with  the  whooping-cough  and  holding  on  to  each 
other  as  they  pass  through  one  of  its  recurrent  onsets, 
some  making  mud-pies  and  others  with  a  piece  of  clothes- 
line harnessing  three  or  four  together  as  horses, — there 
they  are ;  well,  the  same  as  you  may  see  anywhere  any 
day.  A  lad  of  ten  or  twelve  summers  holding  a  handful 
of  flowers  and  under  his  arm  a  huge  cabbage  stares  at 
me  with  his  mouth  and  eyes  wide  open.  I  am  not  sure 
whether  he  thinks  I  am  a  Dutchman  or  a  goblin,  but  he 
looks  as  I  have  always  understood  cheese  and  beer  are 
supposed  to  look  at  the  former  and  wicked  people  at  the 
latter.  I  ask  him  to  give  me  of  his  roses ;  he  turns  pale 
either  with  fright  or  with  pleasure,  but  he  picks  out  one 
of  the  finest  and  offers  it  me.  I  give  him  a  penny ;  what 
have  I  done  ?  He  blushes,  smiles,  regards  me  with  fa- 
vor and  my  gift  with  joy.  Off  run  half  a  dozen  boys 
and  girls  for  flowers,  and  almost  before  I  have  gone  as 
many  yards  one  and  another  beg  me  to  take  them — on 
the  same  terms,  of  course.  They  do  not  know  the  tones 
and  the  ways  of  the  London  and  Liverpool  urchins — 


316  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

"  Please,  sir,"  "  No,  no,  thank  you  !" — and  I  can  tell  by 
their  faces  that,  whatever  they  may  have  thought  of  me 
before,  they  are  now  well  satisfied  that  I  am  barbarous 
and  stingy.  That  will  not  do ;  a  few  coppers  scattered 
amongst  them,  and  I  get  three  cheers. 

I  went  into  the  village  inn  and  enjoyed  a  glass  of  gin- 
ger ale  and  a  chat  with  the  landlady.  The  house  is 
called  the  "  Royal  Oak  " — why,  I  do  not  know,  unless, 
possibly,  after  the  famous  adventure  of  Charles  II.,  for 
the  great  tree  in  front  of  the  door  is  certainly  an  elm. 
Long,  long  ago  an  oak  may  have  grown  there,  and  pos- 
sibly a  hostel  has  occupied  the  site  for  centuries ;  at  any 
rate,  the  building  has  the  appearance  of  considerable  age. 
The  low  black  ceiling,  the  deep  recesses  in  the  windows 
and  the  fireplace,  the  wooden  settles  and  the  clean  stone 
floor,  create  feelings  almost  of  veneration.  In  old  Eng- 
lish times,  as  there  were  occasionally  female  sheriffs  and 
female  churchwardens,  so  inns  were  frequently — perhaps 
mostly — kept  by  women,  and  even  now  in  many  such  as 
this  a  wife  or  a  widow  holds  the  license  and  acts  as  host- 
ess. My  hostess  has  little  to  say  and  does  not  know 
anything  about  the  sign ;  and  when  I  tell  her  that  inn- 
keepers used  to  put  out  of  their  door  a  bush  to  indicate 
that  they  had  good  wine — though  "  good  wine  needs  no 
bush  " — she  looked  at  me  very  unbelievingly.  Signs 
are,  however,  curious  things,  and  I  remember  one  of 
the  "  Gate  "  at  Brailes — it  may  be  still  there,  for  aught 
I  know — and  on  it  were  the  Jines, 

"  This  gate  hangs  high,  And  hinders  none ; 

Refresh  and  pay,  And  travel  on." 

Five  o'clock !     I  finish  my  ale  and  proceed. 


OVER    THE   COUNTRY.  317 

Outside  of  Whatcote  I  came  up  to  a  man  driving  a 
heavy  cart  laden  with  barrels  and  parcels.  On  my  ask- 
ing him  the  way  to  Honington  he  invited  me  to  ride 
with  him  on  his  wagon.  I  was  glad  to  accept  and  to 
lodge  my  now  wearied  body  on  the  head  of  a  beer-cask. 
He  was  very  talkative  and  opened  up  a  long,  unceasing 
harangue  upon  the  troubles  of  the  country,  which 
seemed  to  consist  solely  of  the  unwise  economy  of 
some  rich  people  who  did  not  buy  or  rent  the  unused 
land  of  the  neighborhood.  Certainly  there  were  many 
fields  lying  fallow  by  the  way  we  drove.  I  suggested  the 
competition  of  American  grain. — "  Not  a  bit  of  it,  sir ! 
There's  money  enough  to  overcome  that,  and  there's  no 
land  in  all  America  to  beat  this  for  growing  wheat." 

There  are  snake-tracks  across  the  road ;  here  and 
there  is  a  cast-off  shred  of  skin.  We  pass  a  man  car- 
rying wild  rabbits  strung  on  a  pole  across  his  shoul- 
der; and  when  I  tell  my  garrulous  friend  of  the  last- 
century  custom  in  Edinburgh  of  a  man  carrying  a  leg- 
of-mutton  shank  through  the  street  and  crying,  "  Twa 
dips  and  a  wallop  for  a  bawbee !"  at  which  the  gude- 
wives  would  bring  their  pails  of  boiling  water  and  thus 
make  broth,  he  laughed  and  said  it  was  a  better  plan 
than  that  of  people  taking  their  dinner  to  the  bake- 
house. The  man  would  have  given  his  head  to  have 
known  who  was  the  stranger  by  his  side ;  but,  instead 
of  that  information,  when  we  reached  Honington  I  gave 
him  fourpence. 

Honington  is  a  pretty  village  near  the  Stour  and  a 
convenient  distance  from  the  Stratford  and  Shipston 
highway,  hiding  amongst  the  noblest  of  trees  and  pos- 
sessing an  ancient  lineage  and  a  great  antiquity.  It  has 


318      THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

a  church  about  two  hundred  years  old  and  a  plain  brick 
mansion  of  the  last-century  style.     It  can  scarcely  be 
said  to  have  a  street,  though  the  cottages  are  built  in 
rows  scattered  around  a  space  undefinable,  partaking,  as 
it  does,  of  the  nature  of  a  square  or  a  triangle  and  a 
lane.     There  are  pleasant  bits  of  lawn  under  the  oaks 
or  the  elms  which  grow  anywhere  about  the  place  and 
spread  their  mossy  boughs  over  road,  side-path,  tiled  or 
thatched  house  and  barn,  making  a  refreshing  and  snug 
woodland  retreat.     I  saw  no  inn  or  tavern  in  the  place ; 
perhaps  a  population  of  not  more  than  two  hundred 
souls,  if  as  many,  does  not  need  any,  though  a  char- 
ter of  the  reign  of  Henry  III.  allowed  it  the  privilege 
on  payment  of  an  annual  fee  to  the  lord  of  the  manor. 
This  same  charter,  according  to  an  abstract  I  find  in  one 
of  the  local  papers,  compelled  the  tenants  not  only  to 
pay   rent,   but  also   to   perform   sundry   other    duties. 
Thus  on  every  alternate  day  between  Midsummer  and 
Michaelmas  they  were  obliged  to  assist  the  lord  on  his 
estate,  receiving  as  their  reward  one  sheep,  eight  loaves 
of  bread,  a  cheese  and  fourpence  in  money.     During  the 
harvest-time  they  had  to  bring  into  the  manor-fields  all 
the  members  of  their  family  except  their  wives,  and,  as 
the  place  belonged  to  the  monks  of  Coventry,  they  had 
to  trudge  at  stated  periods  to  that  city,  each  tenant  tak- 
ing with  him  four  hens,  one  cock  and  five  eggs  as  an 
offering  to  the  Fathers.     There  is  now  no  mill  in  the 
parish,  but  in  the  reign  of  the  Conqueror  there  were 
four  such  conveniences.     Dissenters  are  unknown,  nor 
has  the  board  school  invaded  the  land. 

Farm-laborers  are  supposed  to  have  risen  in  influence 
and  in  comfort  during  the  past  few  years.     They  have 


OVER    THE   COUNTRY.  319 

the  franchise  and  some  of  them  read  the  weekly  news- 
paper of  the  district  as  well  as  their  Bibles ;  indeed, 
many  of  them  can  discuss  Mr.  Gladstone  as  intelligently 
as  they  can  discuss  Nebuchadnezzar ;  which  is  not  saying 
much,  only  they  have  a  lively  appreciation  of  the  fact 
that,  as  the  Babylonish  king  once  placed  a  good  man 
in  the  den  of  lions,  so  the  great  Liberal  chieftain  has  a 
weakness  for  doing  the  same  thing — metaphorically,  of 
course — with  his  political  opponents.  Large  numbers  of 
the  younger  men  have  gone  to  the  cities  and  the  colo- 
nies, and  throughout  the  agricultural  Midlands  there  has 
been  on  the  whole  a  decrease  in  the  population.  But, 
notwithstanding  all  that  has  been  said  and  done,  Hodge 
is  badly  enough  off.  He  still  thinks  himself  lucky  if  he 
gets  a  piece  of  bacon  once  or  twice  a  week,  and  beef — 
or  "butcher's  meat,"  as  he  calls  it — as  many  times  a 
month.  However,  though  poor,  he  is  not  miserable. 

Turning  into  Fell  Mill  lane  at  Honington — the  same 
way  by  which  I  started  for  my  day's  jaunt — I  walked  for 
some  distance  with  one  of  his  kind  who  was  slowly 
wending  his  way  home  after  his  toil.  A  pious,  God- 
fearing man  I  found  him  to  be  after  a  few  minutes'  con- 
versation, a  little  inclined  to  grumble,  but  not  more  so 
than  the  average  Englishman.  He  was  turning  the 
meridian  of  life — a  life  which  had  been  spent  within  a 
radius  of  a  few  miles,  five  at  the  outside,  from  where  he 
lived.  Once  he  had  been  to  Stratford,  nine  miles  off,  but 
that  was  many  years  ago,  when  he  was  a  young  man 
and  unmarried.  He  had  heard  of  France,  Russia  and 
America :  they  were  somewhere  in  this  world,  but  where 
he  did  not  know,  for,  as  he  put  it,  his  "  schooling  "  was 
neglected  when  he  was  a  boy.  As  he  passed  from  under 
21 


320  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

the  care  of  the  ancient  dame  who  taught  the  children  of 
the  village  their  letters  and  figures  when  he  was  about 
nine  years  old,  it  was  little  wonder.  At  that  tender  age 
he  was  promoted  to  the  duty  of  minding  the  geese  or 
the  sheep  in  the  meadow-lane,  and  was  occasionally  al- 
lowed to  lead  the  first  horse  at  the  plough,  so  that  books 
were  beyond  him  and  the  longest  thing  he  had  ever 
learned  was  the  General  Confession,  which  he  could  re- 
peat— as  he  did  repeat  it  twice  every  Sunday  of  his  life 
— without  mistake,  provided  the  parson  had  a  clear 
voice.  "  As  to  my  duty  toward  my  neighbor,"  he  said, 
a  sad  smile  moving  awkwardly  over  his  tanned  and 
thick-skinned  face,  "  I  never  could  manage  that.  My 
daughter  Pollie  can,  though ;  she's  a  fine  girl  and  knows 
more  than  her  father."  Nevertheless,  he  had  brought 
up  a  family  of  seven  to  fear  God  and  honor  the  queen, 
and  to  brighten  his  declining  years  he  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  a  prospect  of  getting  his  son  into  the  police-force 
and  of  receiving  for  his  own  ten  hours'  work  the  sum 
of  one  shilling  and  eightpence.  To  help  his  meagre  in- 
come he  was  able  once  in  a  while  to  snare  a  rabbit — per- 
haps some  nobler  game,  of  which  he  said  nothing,  being 
a  prudent  as  well  as  a  good  man — and  to  find  some 
mushrooms  in  the  meadows.  His  wife  made  wine  out 
of  elderberries  and  sloes,  and  in  the  winter  his  boys 
went  hedging  for  sparrows,  and  frequently  got  enough 
to  make  a  decent-sized  pie  or  pudding.  On  the  whole, 
to  quote  his  own  words,  he  had  much  to  be  thankful  for 
and  many  a  man  was  worse  off  than  he.  The  farmers, 
for  instance,  had  a  hard  time  of  it,  for  it  was  cheaper  to 
import  wheat  than  to  grow  it.  I  gave  him  double  his 
day's  wages,  and,  grasping  his  hard,  rough  hand,  bade 


OVER    THE   COUNTRY.  321 

him  godspeed  and  "Good-eve."  My  path  lay  across 
the  fields,  but  before  I  passed  through  the  gate  I  watched 
him  plodding  along  the  road  toward  Barcheston.  A 
true  child  of  God,  with  more  peace  in  his  heart  than 
even  kings  possess! 

Country-people  are  not  all  like  this  man  in  this  re- 
spect; possibly  there  are  none  who  snarl  and  quarrel 
with  one  another  as  much  as  they.  The  women  particu- 
larly give  a  liberty  to  their  tongues  and  use  language 
not  unworthy  of  the  traditional  Billingsgate.  One  does 
not  wonder  that  the  ducking-stool  was  freely  used. 
Some  seem  to  have  no  control  over  their  violent  tem- 
pers, and  a  termagant  running  on  day  after  day  becomes 
irritating  sooner  or  later.  Poor  wretches !  who  can  tell 
the  miseries  of  their  past  ?  Now  religion  and  law  have 
bettered  them,  but  the  ages  bequeathed  to  them  a  bur- 
den almost  beyond  the  possibility  of  removing.  Village 
life  six  hundred  years  ago  has  been  described  by  mas- 
ters of  social  history,  and  it  was  a  widely-different  thing 
from  village  life  of  to-day.  Then  murders,  suicides,  rob- 
beries and  crimes  of  all  sorts  were  rife,  and  the  people 
who  slept  at  night  in  the  clothes  worn  in  the  day  and 
lived  in  dirt  were  morally  wretched  and  depraved.  There 
was  law :  criminals  were  hanged  and  torn  to  pieces  by 
horses.  "  It  is  impossible  for  us,"  says  a  writer  describ- 
ing a  Norfolk  village  in  1285,  "to  realize  the  hideous 
ferocity  of  such  a  state  of  society  as  this.  The  women 
were  as  bad  as  the  men — furious  beldames,  dangerous  as 
wild  beasts,  without  pity,  without  shame,  without  re- 
morse, and  finding  life  so  cheerless,  so  hopeless,  so  very, 
very  dark  and  miserable,  that  when  there  was  nothing  to 
be  gained  by  killing  any  one  else  they  killed  themselves." 


322     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

Thank  God  all  this  has  changed !  but  these  same  people 
of  whom  I  speak,  who  let  their  passions  run  away  with 
them,  are  their  descendants,  for  there  has  been  little  mi- 
gration in  the  remote  country  districts.  Rough  times 
and  rough  punishments !  The  stocks  are  still  near  the 
church  gate  at  Tredington.  Yonder  son  of  the  soil, 
now  nearly  out  of  my  sight,  with  many  defects  and 
many  weaknesses,  is  a  new  creation — nature  brings  lilies 
out  of  swamps  and  dunghills,  and  grace  makes  saints 
out  of  men — and  in  the  transformation  of  which  he  is  a 
type  we  may  see  the  power  of  a  pure  Christianity.  The 
old  mediaevalism  could  not  help  such  as  he;  only  a 
religion  which  brought  Christ  directly  to  him  and  gave 
to  his  perishing  soul  the  sustaining  knowledge  of  God's 
love  could  make  him  happy  and  hopeful.  There  is  no 
cross  by  the  wayside  at  which  he  may  kneel  and  repeat 
an  "  Ave,"  but  as  he  turns  his  face  toward  the  setting 
sun  he  will  rejoice  in  the  thought  of  the  many  mansions 
where  he  shall  find  a  home  when  the  tribulation  of  this 
life  is  overpast. 

The  rights  of  footpaths  are  very  jealously  guarded. 
Some  of  these  meadow-ways — such  as  the  one  I  am 
now  treading — are  older  than  the  neighboring  roads; 
probably  they  are  the  tracks  by  which  centuries  ago 
the  people  found  their  way  through  the  wilderness  from 
settlement  to  settlement  and  from  farm  to  farm.  For 
any  man,  though  he  were  lord  of  the  manor,  or  even 
king  of  the  realm,  to  attempt  to  close  them  from  the 
public  would  be,  as  the  old  Greeks  would  have  said,  to 
catch  the  wind  with  a  net  or  to  write  upon  the  surface 
of  the  sea.  I  have  been  told  of  a  squire  who  tried  it, 
and,  instead  of  turning  the  people  out  of  the  paths  in 


OVER   THE   COUNTRY.  323 

which  their  fathers  had  walked,  by  some  mysterious 
operation  or  other  his  head  was  turned  halfway  round. 
When  he  was  able  to  look  straight  behind  him,  he  saw 
the  evil  of  which  he  had  been  guilty,  and,  either  from 
increased  knowledge  or  from  increased  awkwardness,  he 
repented,  and  the  legend  says  he  was  immediately  as 
though  nothing  had  happened.  The  lesson  is  apparent, 
but  possibly  everybody  does  not  know  that  caring  for 
roads  and  paths  was  once  regarded  as  a  religious  duty. 
The  author  of  The  Sick  Man's  Salve,  a  thoroughgoing 
English  reformer,  and  chaplain  to  Archbishop  Cranmer, 
enumerates,  among  the  many  virtues  which  justified  him 
in  thinking  his  "  sick  man  "  had  made  a  Christian  and 
godly  end,  that  he  had  given  freely  to  the  repairing  of 
highways.  In  one  age  people,  when  ill,  vowed  if  they 
recovered  to  give  their  weight  in  wax  to  be  consumed 
in  tapers  before  the  shrine  of  their  patron-saint ;  in  an- 
other, they  promised  to  give  so  much  stone  to  the  roads 
and  so  much  wood  to  the  foot-bridges  of  the  parish. 
Too  often  in  such  cases,  it  is  to  be  feared,  the  old  adage 
was  verified : 

"  The  devil  was  sick : 

The  devil  a  monk  would  be ; 
The  devil  was  well : 
The  devil  a  monk  was  he." 

Anti-climaxes  and  oddities  are  frequent  and  help  to 
brighten  the  daily  round.  The  other  day  I  saw  a  really 
comical  situation.  A  woman  was  standing  in  a  cottage 
doorway  with  a  boy  sitting  on  the  ground  a  little  dis- 
tance ofif ;  he  was  playing  and  she  was  singing  the  hymn, 
"  Hark !  hark,  my  soul !  angelic  songs  are  swelling." 


324  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

The  boy  did  something  just  as  she  got  to  the  line  "  An- 
gels sing  on."  She  did  not  stop  to  finish  it,  but,  break- 
ing off  abruptly,  she  caught  him  by  the  hair  and  gave 
him  a  rapid  succession  of  severe  cuffs.  He  cried  and 
screamed  at  the  top  of  his  voice ;  she  went  back  to  her 
post  and  on  with  her  song  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened: "  Sing  us  sweet  fragments."  The  boy  did  indeed 
sing  lustily  and  with  a  good  courage. 

There  is  Shipston  over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  the  set- 
ting sun  just  gilding  the  old  church-tower  with  the  rose- 
ate glory.  All  is  still  and  restful — a  lovely  evening. 
No  wonder  men  in  all  ages  have  been  moved  by  Nature's 
charms,  and  especially  by  the  splendor  of  the  sunset. 
The  crimson  on  the  clouds  and  the  purple  of  the  shad- 
ows are  inimitable,  more  wonderful  than  aught  that  the 
painter's  brush  can  produce — more  wonderful,  because 
deeper  and  richer  in  hue,  and,  which  no  artist  can  ac- 
complish, moving,  fading,  brightening,  changing  and  pre- 
senting shades  full  of  living  glory.  How  the  old  Greeks 
delighted  in  this  calm,  sweet  hour — in  fact,  in  everything 
of  nature !  There  was  Athena,  the  queen  of  the  air. 
She  brought  to  man  the  sweet,  pure  winds  of  heaven 
and  ruled  over  the  gods  of  the  flying  clouds  and  the  de- 
mons of  the  storm.  She  was  beautiful  and  lovely,  her 
robe  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky,  sometimes  set  with  the 
brilliant  star-gems,  sometimes  fringed  with  the  saffron  of 
the  sunrise,  and  in  a  moment  such  as  this  she  seems  to 
sit  enthroned  in  her  palace  of  magnificence,  her  crown  a 
wreath  of  sunbeams,  her  face  bright  with  the  sweetness 
and  the  purity  of  the  calm  eventide  light,  and  her  hand 
uplifted  to  still  the  playful  noise  of  nature,  to  cheer  the 
tired  world  and  to  bless  the  expectant  heart  of  man. 


OVER   THE   COUNTRY.  $2$ 

What  marvel  if  out  of  such  scenes  and  times  have 
emerged  myths  and  legends — myths  that  have  been 
dear  through  countless  ages,  sung  in  the  nursery  and 
unfolded  in  the  college,  and  legends  which  seem  so 
true  and  so  real !  We,  rude  Northern  people,  as  they 
of  the  warm  meridiana  regard  us,  have  our  sunset  story 
— not,  perhaps,  so  exquisite  and  delicate  as  those  of 
Greek  imaginings,  for  God  made  only  one  such  people, 
but,  after  all,  not  unworthy  of  the  common  Aryan  an- 
cestry. 

Let  me  sit  in  the  fading  sunlight  on  this  stile  and  re- 
call the  tradition  of  the  noble  Guy  of  Warwick.  He,  as 
all  men  know  and  have  known  from  childhood,  was  a 
brave  and  renowned  warrior,  the  hero  of  numberless 
battles  and  the  darling  knight  of  Christendom.  With  a 
fair  maiden,  Felice  by  name,  the  daughter  of  a  great 
earl,  he  fell  in  love.  She  was,  so  runs  the  story,  both 
beautiful  and  haughty — beautiful  like  some  stately  mar- 
ble shaft  of  perfect  mould,  haughty  as  the  great  gerfal- 
con which  spurns  the  earth  and  towers  up  into  the  noon 
to  look  the  burning  sun  in  the  face.  When  he  told  his 
heart's  secret,  she  bade  him  go  to  the  war-fields  and 
prove  there  by  deeds  of  prowess  his  right  to  be  the  peer 
of  a  high  born-lady.  So  he  went  far  away  and  won  for 
himself  golden  fame,  and  at  last  returned  to  claim  as  his 
own  the  lovely  Felice.  But  ere  the  wedding-feast  had 
ended,  Guy's  conscience  was  smitten  with  the  thought 
that  all  his  great  achievements  had  been  wrought  to  win 
a  woman's  love  and  not  one  deed  had  been  done  for  God. 
Then  he  bade  farewell  to  his  weeping  bride  and  sped 
away  again  to  fight  and  to  work  for  his  Lord,  and  while 
he  was  doing  doughty  deeds  in  far-off  lands  she  wore 


326  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

her  widow's  robe  and  wept  for  her  brave  knight.  Years 
after  he  came  back  again  to  his  own  country,  but  he 
went  not  to  his  wife :  he  was  content  to  see  her  as  on 
deeds  of  mercy  she  daily  passed  the  hermitage  in  the 
cliff  where  he  took  up  his  abode ;  only,  once,  all  travel- 
worn  and  with  his  pilgrim's  staff  in  his  hand,  he  went  to 
her  house  for  alms,  and  she  took  him  in  and  washed  his 
feet  and  ministered  to  him,  and  asked  him  if  in  his  dis- 
tant journeyings  he  had  seen  her  loving  lord.  Then 
many  weeks  went  by,  and  he,  feeling  his  end  was  near 
and  he  was  about  to  go  away  for  ever,  sent  his  ring  to 
Felice  and  bade  her  come  to  him.  She  knew  the  token 
and  hastened  to  her  long-mourned  husband,  but  Guy 
could  not  speak ;  so  they  wept  in  each  other's  arms,  and 
she  kissed  him,  and  he  died.  And  fifteen  weary  days  she 
lingered  sore  in  grief,  and  then  God's  angel  came  and 
gently  closed  her  own  tired  eyes ;  and  both  she  and  the 
lover  of  her  youth  were  laid  in  the  same  grave — severed 
in  life,  but  united  in  death. 

Perhaps  the  story  has  lost  its  popularity,  but  others 
have  believed  it  besides  the  people  of  fair  Warwickshire, 
and  many  still  visit  the  cave  in  the  rocks  near  the  coun- 
try town  where  the  hero  died.  Formerly  a  chantry  was 
there,  and  in  the  chapel,  where  priests  said  daily  solemn 
masses,  was  placed  a  statue  of  Sir  Guy.  In  Chaucer's 
time  the  legend  was  sung,  and  some  have  thought  it  had 
its  origin  in  that  battle  of  Byran-byrig  mentioned  toward 
the  end  of  my  last  chapter;  but,  for  all  that,  though  it 
may  be  mingled  with  facts,  associated  and  colored  with 
historical  events  and  personages,  it  is  a  nature-myth. 
The  brave  knight  Guy  is  none  other  than  the  sun,  which 
rejoiceth  as  a  giant  to  run  its  course,  which  in  the  early 


OVER   THE   COUNTRY.  327 

morn  leaves  his  young  and  lovely  bride  amid  the  rose- 
clouds  of  the  Orient,  the  beauty  and  hopefulness  of 
youth  and  new-found  happiness,  and,  rising  in  the  sky, 
wanders  through  trackless  wilds,  doing  mighty  things, 
till  at  last,  weary  and  worn,  he  draws  toward  home 
again  and  lays  him  down  to  rest  and  die.  Then  sweet 
Felice  comes — the  clouds,  rosy,  creamy,  maiden-blush — 
and  she  clasps  him  in  a  last  embrace  ere  he  passes  away, 
and  still  hovers  over  his  grave  until  her  beauty  also 
fades  into  the  night.  Thus  the  weary  sun  dying  in  the 
bosom  of  the  tender  clouds  is  a  figure  of  the  parting  of 
true  husband  and  wife. 

The  twilight  is  coming  on  now,  and  soon  the  mists 
will  creep  up  the  meadows  from  the  brook  and  the 
fairies  begin  their  night  revels.  Cinderella  belongs  to 
hours  nearer  the  morrow:  the  prince  is  the  sun,  the 
fairy  the  light,  and  she  the  dawn.  The  dress  of  ashen- 
gray  is  changed  by  the  fairy  into  a  robe  of  beautiful 
hues.  The  prince  runs  after  her,  but  the  beautiful  maid- 
en leaves  only  one  trace  behind,  the  glass  slipper — the 
crystal  dewdrops.  Even  the  other  nursery  legend,  be- 
ginning with  "  Sing  a  song  o'sixpence,"  admits  of  sim- 
ilar explanation.  The  four-and-twenty  blackbirds  are 
the  four-and-twenty  hours,  and  the  pie  that  holds  them 
is  the  underlying  earth  covered  with  the  overarching 
sky.  When  the  pie  is  opened — that  is,  when  day  breaks 
— the  birds  begin  to  sing.  The  king  is  the  sun,  and  his 
counting  out  his  money  is  the  pouring  out  the  golden 
sunshine ;  while  the  queen  is  the  moon  and  her  trans- 
parent honey  the  moonlight.  The  maid  hanging  out 
the  clothes  is  the  rosy-fingered  dawn,  who,  rising  before 
the  sun,  hangs  out  the  clouds  across  the  sky. 


328  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

But  I  hasten  into  the  quiet  town,  there  to  rest  after 
my  long  journeying,  and  to  thank  God  that  he  has  given 
me  a  day  of  rare  delight — one  to  be  remembered  grate- 
fully and  fondly  for  years  to  come. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 


"  He  picked  the  earliest  Strawberries  in  Woods, 
The  cluster'd  Filberds,  and  the  purple  Grapes  : 
He  taught  a  prating  Stare  to  speak  my  Name  ; 
And  when  he  found  a  Nest  of  Nightingales, 
Or  callow  Linnets,  he  would  show  'em  me, 
And  let  me  take  'em  out." 

SUFFER  a  merry  and  homely  legend  illustrating  some 
phases  of  life  in  these  secluded  country  regions. 

Shadrack  Abednego  Pruce  was  an  orphan  —  that  is  to 
say,  his  father  and  his  mother  were  both  dead.  They 
died  before  Shadrack  Abednego  became  an  orphan,  — 
and  when  they  were  buried,  Shadrack  Abednego  planted 
a  yew  tree  and  a  rose-bush  on  their  grave,  and  said,  "  I 
am  an  orphan."  He  sat  down  on  the  grave  and  cried 
for  nearly  three  minutes,  and  said,  "  I  am  an  orphan." 
He  walked  up  and  down  the  churchyard,  reading  the 
inscriptions  on  the  tombstones,  peeping  into  the  church, 
watching  the  rooks  in  the  elm  trees  and  •  muttering  over 
and  over  again,  "  I  am  an  orphan."  He  thought  that 
meant  something,  and  the  words  seemed  to  comfort  his 
bereaved  heart.  Then  he  sat  swinging  on  the  gate  that 
led  into  the  meadow  at  the  back  of  the  church,  and  then 
he  wept  and  thought,  and  "  I  am  an  orphan  "  came  to 
his  lips,  and  the  rusty  hinges  creaked  back,  "  Orphan  ! 
orphan!"  Then  he  went  home  to  dinner. 

329 


33O  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

This  was  just  a  week  after  the  funeral  of  Shadrack's 
mother,  and  ten  days  after  that  of  his  father.  In  the 
house  the  pictures  and  the  looking-glasses  were  still 
toward  the  wall,  for  old  Susannah — she  was  Shadrack's 
aunt  on  his  mother's  side,  and  now  his  sole  protector — 
was  somewhat  superstitious  and  did  not  wish  .to  see  in 
the  mirror  the  face  of  her  lately-deceased  sister. 

"  Not  that  I  believe  in  such  things,"  she  said  to  the 
neighbors,  "  but  there's  no  telling  what  might  happen." 

"  That's  true,  Aunt  Susie,"  was  the  reply  from  every- 
body ;  "  it's  always  best  to  be  on  the  safe  side." 

So  every  picture,  portrait  and  looking-glass  in  the 
house  had  its  safe  side  turned  to  the  public,  and  even 
the  silver  tea-pot  on  the  cupboard  had  a  cloth  thrown 
over  it,  so  that  the  dead  should  not  be  tempted  to  come 
again. 

The  effect  of  this  was  that  poor  Shadrack  Abednego 
had  not  been  able  to  comb  his  hair  properly  for  more 
than  a  week,  and,  as  he  had  very  long  and  very  red  hair, 
he  did  not  look  quite  so  neat  as  he  should  have  done. 
Once  he  went  out  to  the  well  and  sought  to  see  himself 
in  its  clear  waters,  but  his  aunt  followed  him  and  ex- 
pressed her  horror  at  his  audacity  so  vigorously  that 
Shadrack  thought  it  best  not  to  hurt  her  feelings  again. 
She  even  cried  for  nearly  an  hour  at  the  bare  thought 
that  as  likely  as  not  before  many  days  dear  Shadrack 
would  be  lying  beside  his  father  and  his  mother.  Then 
she  looked  at  the  sturdy,  rugged  urchin,  and  she  dried 
her  eyes  with  the  corner  of  her  gingham  apron  and  of- 
fered to  comb  Shadrack's  hair  herself.  But  Shadrack 
was  now  sixteen  years  old  and  five  feet  seven  inches 
high,  and  he  boldly  declared  no  woman — or  man,  either, 


A   MERRY  LEGEND.  33! 

for  that  matter — should  comb  his  hair ;  upon  which  de- 
fiant rejection  of  her  kind  offer,  Aunt  Susannah  dropped 
off  into  hysterics,  and  for  twenty  minutes  her  next-door 
neighbor,  who  ran  to  her  assistance  when  she  heard  her 
scream,  thought  it  was  doubtful  if  she  would  escape 
with  her  life.  Hysterics,  however,  do  not  kill,  and  after 
copious  doses  of  brandy  and  repeated  applications  of 
burning  feathers  to  her  nose  and  of  cold  water  to  the 
back  of  her  neck  she  gradually  recovered.  Then  the 
kind-hearted  neighbor  suggested  that  Shadrack  should 
be  severely  punished,  but  Aunt  Susannah  said,  "  Poor 
boy !  he  is  an  orphan ;"  and  she  went  back  to  her  task 
of  peeling  potatoes  for  dinner. 

So  on  the  day  that  Shadrack  Abednego  planted  the 
bushes  on  his  parents'  grave  his  hair  was,  as  the  saying 
is,  all  sixes  and  sevens,  his  face  had  tear-tracks  down  his 
cheeks,  his  necktie  was  upside  down,  and  he  looked  ex- 
actly what  he  called  himself  and  everybody  else  called 
him — an  orphan.  Thus  he  sat  down  with  Aunt  Susan- 
nah at  the  table.  He  was  both  sad  and  hungry,  and  he 
ate  away  at  the  roast  goose  and  boiled  potatoes,  and  af- 
terward at  the  apple-dumplings,  with  all  the  delight  and 
zest  imaginable.  As  the  half-grown  girl  who  did  the 
rough  work  about  the  house  said,  "  Live  folks  must  eat, 
and  as  long  as  Master  Shadrack  wanted  a  good  dinner 
he  should  have  it."  She  had  ideas  of  her  own  about 
Master  Shadrack,  but,  having  once  had  her  ears  pinched 
for  observing  to  Aunt  Susannah  that  he  was  becoming 
a  fine  young  man,  she  kept  them  to  herself.  Aunt  Su- 
sannah wanted  no  nonsense  over  Shadrack  Abednego. 
Least  of  all  did  she  want  anybody  to  fall  in  love  with 
him.  That  had  been  the  trouble  with  his  mother — a 


332  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

girl  that  was  worth  her  weight  in  gold  till  she  got  mar- 
ried, and  then  trouble  began.  No ;  Shadrack  should 
grow  up  like  the  great  oak  on  the  village  green — grand 
in  himself,  noble  in  his  solitude.  But,  for  all  that,  the 
half-grown  girl  had  her  eye  on  Shadrack,  and  she 
longed  for  nothing  so  much  as  to  comb  out  his  radi- 
ant locks  and  wash  his  grief-  and  dirt-stained  face  and 
kiss  his  bright  red  lips. 

Shadrack  ate  his  dinner ;  then  he  drank  half  a  mug 
of  ale ;  then  he  sat  back  and  looked  fondly  and  con- 
tentedly into  Aunt  Susannah's  admiring  face. 

"  A  nice  goose,  Aunt  Susie,"  said  he. 

"  The  best  in  the  yard,"  she  replied ;  "  the  very  one 
your  dear  father  thought  so  much  of." 

Poor  Shadrack  began  to  cry,  and  found  it  not  so  easy 
as  it  had  been  before  dinner. 

"  Don't  cry,  my  orphan  nevy — don't  cry,"  said  Aunt 
Susannah,  sympathetically;  "people  must  die,  and  so 
must  geese,  but  don't  ee  cry." 

"No,  I  won't,"  muttered  Shadrack;  "but  just  to  think 
how  fond  father  was  of  this  goose,  how  it  would  run 
after  him  and  eat  out  of  his  hand,  and  now  we  have 
ate  the  goose!" 

"  There's  enough  left  for  another  dinner,  Shaddy  dear. 
So  don't  ee  cry,  but  go  out  and  see  if  the  men  are  all 
right  in  the  yard,  and  if  the  bay  mare's  colt  is  in  the 
meadow.  These  are  all  your  things  now." 

"  Yes,  aunty,  I  am  an  orphan ;"  and  Shadrack  Abed- 
nego  went  out  to  see  if  old  Solomon,  the  unofficial  but 
very  officious  overseer,  was  getting  on  well  with  the 
men  and  the  things  of  the  farm. 

Old  Solomon  was   a  childless  widower.     His  better 


A  MERRY  LEGEND.  333 

half  had  been  dead  nearly  sixteen  years,  and  never  but 
once  in  all  that  time  had  his  heart  been  moved  by  emo- 
tions of  love.  Unfortunately,  it  had  been  so  effectually 
moved  that  it  quivered  yet.  He  had  worked  on  the 
farm  from  boyhood.  When  a  stunted  lad  of  thirteen, 
he  had  driven  the  horses  at  plough  and  helped  hold  the 
sheep  at  the  shearing.  He  had  grown  up  an  able  and 
a  trusted  laborer,  had  served  as  wagoner  and  as  shep- 
herd, and  now  at  the  age  of  sixty  he  had  without  formal 
appointment  dropped  into  the  general  management  of 
the  whole  farm.  Good  wages  and  a  free  cottage,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  possession  of  authority,  made  him  a  man 
of  some  importance — so  much  so  that,  next  to  the  par- 
son and  Shadrack's  father,  he  was  regarded  as  the  great 
man  of  the  parish.  And  from  his  exalted  position  old 
Solomon  looked  down  upon  one  of  his  womanly  ac- 
quaintances— one  whom  he  had  known  from  her  cradle, 
one  whom  he  had  admired  from  her  girlhood,  and  one 
whom  he  had  loved  from  the  day  he  laid  his  wife  be- 
neath the  sod.  This  acquaintance  was  none  other  than 
Miss  Susannah,  Shadrack's  aunt,  and  now  his  mistress. 
Not  that  he  had  ever  told  his  love ;  it  was  his  heart's 
delight  and  his  heart's  secret, 

"  Does  she  take  it  very  hard  ?"  asked  old  Sol  when, 
on  the  afternoon  of  which  we  are  speaking,  Shadrack 
stood  beside  him  watching  the  cows  coming  up  for 
milking. 

"  Who  ?"  asked  Shadrack. 

"  Miss  Susannah,"  replied  old  Sol. 

"  Rather,"  was  the  laconic  reply. 

"  Poor  soul !"  said  old  Sol ;  "  poor  soul !  And  hasn't 
she  turned  the  looking-glass  round  yet  ?" 


334  THE  HEART  OF  MERE  IE  ENGLAND. 

"  No." 

"  Nor  given  the  cat  skim-milk  instead  of  cream  ?" 

"  No ;  she  says  the  cat's  heart  needs  comforting  as 
much  as  anybody's." 

"  Kind-hearted  creature !  Isn't  she  a  beauty  ?"  The 
first  part  of  this  observation  applied  to  Miss  Susannah ; 
the  latter,  to  a  remarkably  fat  cow  passing  at  that  mo- 
ment. 

Shadrack  thought  both  remarks  applied  to  his  aunt. 

"  I  say,  Sol,"  he  put  in,  "  none  of  that !" 

"  What?"  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

"  Oh,  you  know  well  enough.  I  say  none  of  that ; 
we  have  trouble  enough."  ^ 

"  I  know  it,"  said  old  Solomon ;  "  but  she  would 
fetch  a  high  price  any  time.  I  know  a  man  who  would 
give  anything  for  such  a  beast." 

"  Gently,"  said  Shadrack ;  "  gently,  old  man.  I  tell 
thee  I  will  hear  none  of  that." 

"  No,  no !"  continued  Solomon,  stilt  thinking  of  the 
cow;  "no,  no!  She's  too  rare  a  breed  to  part  with. 
There's  not  such  another  brute  in  this  parish,  nor  the 
next.  So  Mr.  Philips  said  t'other  day." 

"  If  you  were  not  an  old  man,  I'd  pitch  thee  into 
yonder  water ;"  and  Shadrack  went  off  in  great  anger. 

"  Impatient  as  his  father,"  said  the  old  man  to  himself 
as  he  turned  down  toward  the  barn. 

Into  the  house  went  Shadrack  Abednego,  and  as  soon 
as  he  found  Aunt  Susannah  he  began : 

"  Aunt  Susie,  old  Solomon  has  called  you  a  beast !" 

"Ugh,  the  wretch!"  and  the  words  hissed  through 
her  teeth. 

"  Yes,  and  he  says  you  are  a  brute." 


A   MERRY  LEGEND.  335 

"  The  scoundrel !  he  shall  go !  He  shall  leave  the 
premises  this  very  night!  To  think  that  your  own 
mother's  sister  should  be  called  a  brute  and  a  beast !" 
Aunt  Susannah  was  too  angry  to  cry. 

"  But  that  isn't  all  of  it,"  continued  Shadrack :  "  he 
declares  you  are  too  rare  a  breed  to  part  with,  and  that 
skinny  Philips  said  so." 

"  The  villain !  the  tramp !  the  outcast !  the  disgrace 
of  his  sex  !  I'll  prosecute  him !  I'll  have  him  sent  to  the 
assizes !  I'll — "  and  poor  Aunt  Susannah's  rage  stopped 
her  words  as  well  as  her  tears.  Her  face  was  white; 
her  hands  trembled ;  her  teeth  were  tightly  set.  There 
was  silence ;  then  she  said,  "  Tell  me  all  about  it,  Shad- 
dy  dear." 

"  That's  all,"  replied  Shadrack — "  though,  to  be  sure, 
he  did  say  you  were  a  beauty." 

"  Oh  !"  The  tide  began  to  turn,  for  her  gray  eyes, 
red  hair,  sharp  nose  and  chin,  high  cheek-bones  and 
angular  figure  made  Aunt  Susannah  anything  but  a 
beauty. 

"And  he  also  called  you  a  kind-hearted  creature." 

"  Now,  are  you  sure  of  that  ?"  very  much  mollified. 

"  Yes,  certain." 

"  He's  not  such  a  bad  fellow,  after  all,"  said  she, 
musingly,  as  though  speaking  to  herself. 

"  What !  not  when  he  called  you  a  brute  and  a  beast  ?" 

"Well,  Shaddy,  you  know  that's  the  way  of  some 
men,  especially  of  such  as  have  to  do  much  with  cattle. 
In  your  dear  father's  eye  a  cow  was  the  pink  of  perfec- 
tion. He  used  to  call  your  mother  '  Cowey,'  and  when- 
ever he  saw  anything  that  pleased  him  he  would  say, 
'  As  fine  as  old  Bess ;'  that  was  the  name  of  one  of  the 

22 


336  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

Durhams.  Oh  no,  there's  nothing  at  all  in  the  words 
'  brute '  and  '  beast,'  when  you  consider  where  they 
come  from." 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Shadrack,  with  the  slightest  pos- 
sible contempt  in  his  voice — "  well,  aunty,  you  are,  as  he 
said  himself,  a  poor  soul !" 

"  Humph !  he's  quite  tender-hearted,"  in  the  softest 
of  tones.  "  Now  go,  Shaddy  dear,  and  take  a  look 
around.  See  if  you  can  find  some  bait  for  fishing,  for 
you  must  try  for  a  trout  to-morrow." 

Shadrack  stood  thinking  for  a  moment.  He  said 
nothing  and  went  out.  But  he  thought,  "  What's  come 
over  aunty  now  ?  She's  getting  a  better  woman  every 
day.  To  see  how  quickly  she  forgave  the  old  scoundrel ! 
That  comes  of  learning  the  parson's  texts  every  Sunday. 
It  takes  all  the  spirit  out  of  her,  but  it  makes  her  good, 
fit  to  go  to  heaven,  that's  certain."  He  took  his  spade 
and  went  down  to  the  willow  trees  by  the  pond  to  dig 
for  grubs  and  worms. 

This  was  the  burden  of  Aunt  Susannah's  soliloquy : 
"  He  says  I  am  a  kind-hearted  creature !  Well,  well ! 
That's  what  I  call  thoughtful  and  manly.  Oh,  I  remem- 
ber when  he  was  a  spry  young  man  and  used  to  swing 
me  under  the  apple  tree.  That's  thirty-five  years  ago, 
now,  I'll  be  bound.  We  have  both  changed  since  then. 
I  would  like  to  peep  into  the  looking-glass,  but  that  will 
never  do.  Only  he's  a  good  strong  man  yet — stronger 
than  many  a  younger  one.  And  folks  said  he  was  kind  to 
his  first  wife  and  cried  when  he  buried  her.  A  faithful 
servant  he's  been.  I  always  thought  a  deal  of  him.  To 
think  of  the  dear  fellow  calling  me  a  brute  and  a  beast ! 
That's  just  like  a  boy  calling  his  sweetheart '  ducky '  and 


A   MERRY  LEGEND.  337 

'  goosey,'  only  from  a  man  '  brute '  and  '  beast '  mean 
more.  Well,  well !"  and  Aunt  Susannah  began  to  won- 
der if  the  legend  so  ran  that  the  mirrors  should  have 
their  faces  turned  to  the  wall  after  the  corpse  left  the 
house.  "  I  thought  it  was  fourteen  days  after  the  fu- 
neral," she  said  to  herself,  "  but  I  may  be  mistaken." 
The  more  she  thought  of  it,  the  more  certain  she  was 
of  her  mistake.  Then  she  remembered  that  when  Re- 
becca Short  died  they  put  everything  to  rights  the  same 
day  that  she  was  buried.  But  when  two  died  within  a 
few  days  of  each  other?  That  was  a  problem,  and 
Aunt  Susannah  began  to  get  bewildered.  "  He  said  I 
was  tender-hearted ;  no,  kind-hearted :  that  was  his 
word.  I  don't  think  two  deaths  would  make  any  dif- 
ference, and  Shaddy's  hair  does  want  combing.  I  think 
I'll  venture  it.  I  do  wish  I  had  somebody  to  advise  me 
what  to  do."  She  looked  at  the  pictures  and  the  mir- 
rors, so  dismally  displaced.  She  thought  out  every 
thought  she  had.  She  sighed  till  she  suddenly  remem- 
bered that  sighs  were  dangerous  and  cut  so  many  hours 
off  one's  life,  and  then  she  stopped.  Up  and  down  the 
room  she  walked,  out  of  the  window  she  looked ;  then 
she  deliberately  took  the  cover  off  the  silver  tea-pot. 
She  seemed  startled  at  her  daring,  but  nothing  hap- 
pened, so  she  turned  first  the  picture  of  the  old  duke 
around,  then  that  of  his  late  Majesty,  then  that  of  a 
famous  prize  greyhound,  and  so  on  till  all  the  pictures 
were  in  their  proper  position.  She  dusted  each  of  them 
off,  thinking  rather  more  of  old  Solomon  than  of  the  risk 
she  was  running.  Once  the  half-grown  girl  peeped  in 
and  exclaimed, 

"  Laws,  missis !  be'st  thee  not  afraid  ?" 


338  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

"  Go  and  scrub  out  the  pantry,  you  impertinent 
thing!"  and  Betsey  departed. 

Nothing  happened.  Twenty  minutes  passed  ;  still  no 
vision  on  any  of  the  glittering  surfaces.  Then,  with  an 
air  of  desperate  firmness,  she  turned  around  one  of  the 
mirrors.  The  first  thing  she  saw  in  it  was  her  own  face, 
and  she  nearly  fainted.  She  looked  again.  Her  heart 
began  to  cease  its  fluttering.  "  He  said  I  was  pretty — a 
beauty.  The  glass  shows  I  am  passable.  Humph ! 
passable !  So  Ezekiel  said ;  every  man  has  passed  me 
by.  Still,  many  a  high-born  lady  has  red  hair,  so  that's 
nothing ;  and  gray  eyes :  they  are  nothing.  After  all, 
it's  handsome  is  that  handsome  does.  To  think  that  old 
Solomon  called  me  beautiful !  What  would  Mary  that's 
dead  and  buried  say  if  she  heard  it  ?  I'll  knit  him  a 
pair  of  blue  worsted  stockings  for  winter,  the  good 
man !"  and  she  continued  admiring  her  charms,  smooth- 
ing her  hair  and  eyebrows,  adjusting  her  dress  and 
meditating  upon  the  thoughtful  and  discerning  kindness 
of  old  Solomon. 

Into  the  room  walked  Shadrack  Abednego.  His 
aunt  was  in  too  great  an  ecstasy  to  hear  the  sound  of 
his  footsteps.  He  watched  her  for  an  instant,  then  he 
exclaimed, 

"  Aunt  Susie,  what  have  you  done  ?  What  have  you 
done  ?  Don't  you  know  I  am  an  orphan  ?" 

"  Oh,  Shadrack,  how  you  frightened  me !"  cried  Aunt 
Susannah,  pale  with  fear  and  trembling  with  excitement. 
"  You  shouldn't  come  in  so  quiet  as  that.  It's  terrible 
to  be  startled  so." 

"But  why  have  you  turned  things  around?"  asked 
Shadrack. 


A  MERRY  LEGEND.  339 

"  I  was  thinking  of  you,  Shaddy  dear.  You  do  need 
washing  up  and  combing  so  badly." 

"  Dear,  kind  aunty !"  said  Shadrack,  with  undis- 
guised admiration.  "You  are  always  thinking  of 
me.  Just  to  think  of  your  turning  the  glass  for  my 
sake !  Loving  mother-aunt,  let  me  kiss  you." 

Aunt  Susannah  blushed — not  at  the  kiss,  but  at  the 
abuse  of  praise.  She  held  her  peace. 

Thus  in  the  evening  of  the  day  our  story  begins  this 
was  the  emotional  state  of  the  hearts  belonging  to  the 
four  individuals  we  have  introduced:  Shadrack  loved 
his  aunt  for  her  devotion ;  old  Solomon  felt  tender 
toward  Aunt  Susannah  because  of  her  recent  grief  and 
his  own  inspiration;  Aunt  Susannah  admired  herself 
more  than  ever,  thought  Shadrack  was  a  good  boy,  and 
looked  more  kindly  on  old  Solomon  because  he  had  dis- 
covered her  charms;  Betsey,  the  half-grown  girl,  was 
simply  and  completely  in  love  with  Shadrack. 

When  the  shades  of  night  overspread  the  land  and 
crickets  on  the  hearth  and  owls  in  the  field  kept  watch, 
Shadrack  and  Solomon  slept  in  peace.  Aunt  Susannah 
dreamed  of  the  seven  fat  kine  of  Egypt  and  thought  she 
was  drowning  in  the  Nile  or  the  Red  Sea,  she  was  not 
sure  which,  when  old  Solomon — perhaps  it  was  the 
Sphinx ;  she  could  not  say :  therefore  it  was  most  likely 
Solomon — jumped  in  and  saved  her;  whereupon  the 
king  of  some  place  married  her  and  she  became  a  par- 
agon of  loveliness.  Poor  Betsey  tossed  about  in  her 
trundle-bed  for  hours.  She  was  happy  and  troubled. 
When  first  she  got  into  the  garret,  she  snuffed  out  the 
candle  :  that  was  a  clear  sign  of  matrimony.  Then  she 
lighted  it  again  and  stuck  a  pin  through  the  wick,  re- 


34-O     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

peating  some  mystic  lines  about  piercing  Shadrack's 
heart  and  his  coming  to  her  in  spirit.  She  watched  the 
candle  burn  below  the  pin ;  it  did  not  drop  out,  there- 
fore he  would  be  sure  to  appear.  To  be  doubly  sure, 
she  set  her  shoes  under  the  bed  in  the  form  of  a  T,  and, 
placing  one  stocking  under  the  pillow  and  hanging  the 
other  over  the  foot  of  the  bed,  she  knelt  down  to  say 
her  prayers.  These  were  short  and  simple — "just  the 
heads,  you  know,"  Betsey  used  to  say ;  for,  poor  girl ! 
by  bedtime  she  was  tired  out.  However,  hours  passed 
this  night  before  she  could  get  to  sleep.  She  lay  there 
thinking  and  building  castles  in  the  air,  hoping  it  might 
be  her  lot  to  be  a  Cinderella  and  marry  the  prince  Shad- 
rack  Abednego.  When  she  felt  her  foot,  though,  she 
was  pretty  sure,  if  it  were  a  very,  very  small  slipper, 
she  would  never  get  it  on ;  so  she  let  Cinderella  go  and 
thought  of  herself  as  a  female  Dick  Whittington,  only 
Shadrack  was  her  London  and  she  had  no  cat.  Any 
way,  she  got  Shadrack — that  is  to  say,  in  her  fancy — 
and  she  was  married  in  fine  style  and  had  a  half-grown 
girl  to  wash  the  dishes  and  mind  the  baby.  Then  she 
dropped  asleep,  but  no  Shadrack  came;  not  even  a 
dream  of  Shadrack  crossed  her  mind.  She  slept  till  the 
gray  dawn  appeared,  and  then  she  got  up  disappointed 
and  less  hopeful,  but  comforting  herself  with  the 
thought,  "  Poor  fellow !  he's  an  orphan — he's  an  orphan. 
And  an  orphan  is  an  exception  to  all  rules." 

Now,  it  came  to  pass  some  few  days  after  this  that  the 
village  parson  called  upon  Aunt  Susannah  and  Shadrack 
Abednego  to  condole  with  them  upon  their  bereave- 
ment. He  had  been  expected,  so  Shadrack's  hair  had 
been  cut;  and  when  the  parson  arrived,  the  orphan 


A   MERRY  LEGEND.  341 

looked  a  bright  and  presentable  youth.  His  new  mourn- 
ing-suit fitted  him  neatly  and  greatly  enhanced  his  ap- 
pearance. His  aunt  was  also  looking  her  very  best 

The  clergyman  was  good  and  kind,  as  all  clergymen 
are.  He  brought  them  his  warmest  sympathy,  which 
they  had  looked  for ;  he  brought  them  something  else, 
which  they  had  not  looked  for. 

This  something  else  was  a  young  girl  of  sixteen  sum- 
mers— his  own  daughter,  Myrtle  Muriel,  a  blithe,  win- 
some maiden  with  long  dark  hair,  brown  eyes,  rosy 
cheeks  and  pearly  teeth.  She  was  a  fairy  such  as 
Shadrack  had  never  seen  before.  He  thought  her 
wonderful,  and  blushed  bright  scarlet  every  time  she 
spoke  to  him,  and  glowed  with  excitement  every  time 
she  looked  at  him.  His  aunt  listened  attentively  to  the 
kind  parson,  and  at  the  same  time  watched  her  nephew 
and  thought  of  the  noble  oak  on  the  village  green. 
Myrtle  was  at  one  moment  running  over  a  list  of 
French  adjectives,  the  next  composing  a  letter  in  her 
mind  to  her  dear  friend  and  schoolmate  Valentine 
Louise  Teeson,  then  watching  the  poultry  in  the  yard, 
and  thus  running  through  things  congruous  and  things 
incongruous,  and  thinking  no  more  of  Shadrack  than 
she  did  of  the  mummy  in  the  Shortstown  museum. 
She  asked  Shadrack  if  he  thought  the  brook  had  as 
many  fish  in  it  as  in  days  gone  by,  and  it  was  as  much 
as  he  could  do  to  gulp  down  his  heart  in  order  to  tell 
her  that  possibly  there  were  less.  Her  sweet  voice 
seemed  to  fascinate  him.  He  never  felt  so  happy  be- 
fore in  his  life.  He  even  thought  it  was  a  good  thing 
to  be  an  orphan,  so  as  to  bring  the  parson  and  his 
daughter  to  the  house. 


342  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

When  they  left,  Shadrack  was  another  being.  He 
watched  her  pretty  figure  down  the  lane  till  she  was 
out  of  sight.  That  night  he  asked  Betsey  to  tell  him 
the  words  of  a  certain  incantation  to  be  uttered  over  a 
cup  of  cowslip  wine,  which  she,  taking  this  to  be  a  sign 
that  her  love-charms  were  working  upon  him  and  that 
ere  long  he  would  be  hers,  did  with  pleasure.  The  ob- 
ject, of  course,  was  to  enable  him  by  a  dream  to  foresee 
the  joy  that  awaited  him.  Carefully  did  he  go  through 
the  prescribed  formula  and  drink  the  enchanted  wine ; 
then  he  lay  down  to  sleep,  and  in  his  sleep  the  vision 
of  glory  came.  He  thought  that  he  was  standing  be- 
fore the  altar  at  the  hour  of  daybreak.  The  surpliced 
priest  was  there ;  the  red  sunlight  fell  upon  the  com- 
pany and  made  the  church  strangely  beautiful  and 
strangely  weird.  The  great  edifice  was  still  and  empty ; 
only  here  in  the  chancel  were  the  friends  and  neighbors 
of  the  bridal-pair.  By  his  side  was  the  lovely  Myrtle, 
crowned  with  the  orange-wreath  and  robed  in  satin- 
cream.  Her  face  was  more  than  beautiful,  it  was  more 
than  earthly.  He  looked  into  her  eyes,  and  there  he 
saw  himself  and  love.  He  touched  her  hand,  and  af- 
fection like  an  electric  current  ran  from  heart  to  heart. 
The  vows  were  made,  the  solemn  words  were  spoken, 
and  then  he  and  his  bride  turned  away,  and  the  radiance 
of  the  early  morn  followed  them  down  the  nave  out  into 
the  great  world  of  sunshine.  Oh  how  dazzling !  oh  how 
bewildering !  Shadrack  watched  himself  and  Myrtle  till 
it  seemed  that  they  had  vanished  in  the  later  meridian 
splendor. 

"  Oh,  it  was  beautiful,"  said  Shadrack  to  Betsey  in 
the  morning  as  he  met  her  at  the  dairy  door. 


A   MERRY  LEGEND.  343 

Betsey  colored  and  said, 

"  Did  'ee  see  her?" 

"  Yes ;  she  was  lovely,  a  bonny  bride — something 
like  Queen  Esther,  you  know,  and  ten  thousand  times 
sweeter  than  any  other  maiden  I  have  seen." 

"  What  did  she  wear  ?"  asked  Betsey. 

"  I  am  not  sure — I  saw  only  her  eyes — but  I  think  she 
wore  a  garland  of  daisies  and  a  pink-colored  dress." 

"  What  eyes  had  she  ?"  inquired  Betsey. 

"  That,  again,  I  don't  remember.  They  were  beauti- 
ful— full  of  love ;  not  dreamy,  but  bright ;  a  sort  of — 
But  there!  I  can't  say.  But  she  was  splendid,  that's 
certain.  To  see  her  in  the  sunlight  you'd  have  thought 
her  a  what-d'ye-call-it  come  down  from  heaven.  Oh, 
Betsey,  if  I  could  have  gone  with  her!  I-  thought, 
when  I  saw  her  fade  into  the  sunbeams,  that  she  disap- 
peared as  a  lark  vanishes  in  the  bright  sky.  I  don't 
know,  but — " 

Just  at  that  moment  Aunt  Susannah,  who  kept  a  strict 
watch  over  the  half-grown  girl  and  ever  associated  Shad- 
rack  and  the  lone,  lorn  oak  together,  appeared  on  the 
scene. 

"  Bet,  you  good-for-nothing  girl,"  she  cried,  "back  to 
your  work !  and  you,  Shad,  be  off!  Wasting  time  like 
this  first  thing  in  the  morning !  I'll  give  the  both  of 
you  a  trouncing !"  and  into  the  dairy  Betsey  went,  say- 
ing to  herself  "  I'm  the  bride,  that's  certain ;  I'm  the 
bride."  And  Shadrack  went  down  to  the  orchard  and 
exclaimed,  "  What  a  bride  she  was !  Oh  what  a 
bride !" 

Time  passed  by  and  the  autumn  came,  and  one  day, 


344  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

when  the  leaves  were  falling  fast,  old  Solomon  made  up 
his  mind  that  he  would  tell  his  love  to  Aunt  Susannah. 
He  fancied  that  for  some  months  past  she  had  treated 
him  in  an  unusually  civil  manner.  She  had  inquired 
about  his  health  and  had  given  him  some  roasted  Jerusa- 
lem artichokes — a  mark  of  special  favor,  for  Jerusalem 
artichokes  were  her  delight.  Therefore  it  was  that  one 
afternoon  when  going  his  rounds  through  the  neighbor- 
ing wood  he  became  sentimental.  The  trees  stripped  of 
their  foliage,  the  wind  whistling  through  the  bare  branches, 
the  soddened  ground  and  swollen  streamlets  and  the 
dying  sunlight,  brought  into  his  tender  heart  that  sweet 
melancholia  which  inspires  and  encourages  love.  He 
had  been  in  full  possession  of  that  sublime  emotion  for 
years ;  but  when  he  saw  the  naked  boughs,  and  especially 
the  white  trunks,  of  the  birch  trees,  he  felt  the  emotion 
was  getting  too  great  for  him.  His  heart  was  too  small 
for  it.  Something  must  be  done,  or  the  emotion  in 
his  breast  would  burst  forth  in  volcanic  earthquakes 
and  eruptions. 

"  Oh,  Susannah,"  he  exclaimed  as  he  sat  down  on  the 
stile — "  oh,  Susannah,  I  must  have  thee  ! — Lord,  thy  will 
be  done,  but  oh,  give  me  Susannah !  She  is  the  best 
hand  I  know  of  to  make  onion-gruel ;  and  onion-gruel 
of  a  cold  winter  night  is  not  so  bad.  I  used  to  take  it 
when  I  was  a  boy,  thickened  with  oatmeal  and  seasoned 
with  sage  and  thyme  chopped  up  small.  The  old  woman 
used  to  say  it  was  good  for  chills  and  cramps,  and  in  bad 
weather  I  had  one  or  other  'most  every  night,  the  gruel 
was  so  good.  Howsoever,  Susannah  is  tiptop  at  that. 
She  knows  how  to  work  and  make  a  man  comfortable, 
and  that's  everything.  She's  got  money,  too,  and  that's 


A   MERRY  LEGEND.  345 

more  than  everything.  She's  not  proud,  so  that  marry- 
ing a  poor  man  would  be  no  come-down  to  her.  Not 
that  I  am  so  poor,  after  all.  I  have  three  hundred  pounds 
in  the  three  per  cents.,  sixty  pounds  in  the  bank,  two 
suits  of  Sunday  clothes  and  a  good  houseful  of  furniture. 
I'll  ax  her — yes,  this  very  night  I'll  ax  her.  She  can  say 
only  one  thing  or  t'other ;  and  if  I  don't  ax  her  she'll 
say  neither.  So  I'll  go  home  and  dress  up  in  my  Sun- 
day best  and  face  Susannah  this  blessed  night.  God 
knows  I  am  a  pretty  good  sort  of  fellow,  and  all  I  want 
now  is  Susannah ;"  and  old  Solomon  got  off  the  stile 
and  hurried  home  as  fast  as  he  could,  so  that  he  might 
see  the  object  of  his  affections  as  soon  as  possible.  Into 
his  Sunday  habiliments  he  carefully  deposited  himself — 
that  is  to  say,  he  dressed  himself  for  the  occasion.  Then 
he  ate  a  good  supper,  for,  as  experience  teaches,  sweet- 
hearting  upon  an  empty  stomach  is  not  what  it  might  be. 
He  also  drank  a  quart  of  real  home-brewed — a  virtuous 
proceeding  characteristic  of  our  fathers  and  strongly 
helpful  to  sentimentalism.  Into  his  buttonhole  he  stuck 
a  scarlet  geranium-flower,  and  in  his  coat -pocket  he  car- 
ried a  bunch  of  lavender.  The  moon  was  coming  up 
when  he  started  for  the  farm,  about  half  a  mile  away.  A 
clear  sky  seemed  a  propitious  omen,  and  the  recollection 
that  Aunt  Susannah  had  smiled  at  him  a  fortnight  since 
was  further  cause  for  encouragement. 

Neither  Shadrack  nor  Betsey  thought  anything  of 
Solomon's  asking  to  see  Aunt  Susannah  alone,  for  he 
often  consulted  her  upon  matters  connected  with  the 
farm.  Even  his  Sunday-like  appearance  did  not  surprise 
them,  seeing  that  a  fair  was  then  going  on  in  a  neighbor- 
ing town  and  he  might  have  been  there  for  the  afternoon. 


346     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

So  they  went  out  of  the  room,  leaving  Solomon  and  Su- 
sannah together. 

"  Miss  Susannah,"  he  began,  "  I  believe  I  am  an  old 
fool." 

"  Lawk  a  daisy,  Solomon !  you  are  not  the  only 
one." 

"  Well,  I  am  the  biggest  one,  any  way." 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  replied  Susannah,  after  a  thought- 
ful pause ;  "  I  don't  know  that.  There's  no  man  around 
here  knows  a  horse  better  than  you  do,  and,  as  to  a 
manager,  you  couldn't  be  better." 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  do  you  know,  Susannah — I  mean 
Miss  Susannah — I  think  a  sight  of  you  ?" 

"  And  I'm  sure  you  are  not  a  fool  for  that,"  said  she, 
slightly  blushing. 

"  But  I  think  you  are  a  seraph  or  a  sylph,  and  that's 
going  a  long  way." 

"  But  there's  nothing  foolish  about  it,"  she  replied, 
softly  and  coyly.  "  Only,  what  is  a  sylph  ?" 

"  It's  a  sort  of  cypher,  I  believe ;  I  saw  it  in  the  news- 
paper the  other  day.  You  go  on  adding  up  and  adding 
up  a  person's  good  qualities,  and  that  is  called  sylpher- 
ing  or  cyphering." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  see,  but  I  didn't  know  that  my  good  quali- 
ties would  make  up  a  sum." 

"  There's  not  an  angel  in  heaven  to  compare  with  you, 
and,  for  that  matter,  nor  in  the  earth  beneath,  nor  in  the 
water  under  the  earth." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  ?"  and  Aunt  Susannah  thought 
her  heart  beat  faster  than  ever  before. 

"  Don't  I  ?"  exclaimed  the  enraptured  Solomon. 
"  Don't  I  ?  I  tell  thee  I  am  a  man,  and  I  know  what 


A  MERRY  LEGEND.  347 

a  woman  is.  There's  not  another  such.  Why,  you 
know  old  Matilda  Cumstock  ?" 

Susannah  nodded  assent  and  turned  up  her  nose 
slightly. 

"Well,  she  thinks  she  is  the  skim-milk  of  perfection." 

"  The  upstart !"  muttered  Susannah. 

"  She  can  spin." 

"  So  can  I." 

"  She  can  milk  a  cow." 

"  So  can  I." 

"  She  can  knit." 

"So  can  I." 

"  She  can  read  the  Bible  from  beginning  to  end." 

"So  can  I." 

"  There's  nothing  she  can't  do." 

"  She  can't  beat  me,"  said  Susannah,  firmly  and  de- 
fiantly. 

"  No,  and  therefore  I  say  you  are  ahead  of  her. 
Lord !  you  are  ahead  of  all  the  Cumstocks  in  the  world. 
Your  Jerusalem  artichokes  are  not  to  be  equalled  any- 
where. If  ever  woman  was  born  to  make  a  man  happy, 
you  are  the  one." 

"  You  are  the  first  one  that  ever  told  me  so,"  said  the 
delighted  Susannah ;  and  she  applied  her  pocket-hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes  and  her  bottle  of  smelling-salts  to 
her  nose,  not  being  quite  sure  whether  it  would  be  more 
becoming  and  grateful  to  cry  or  to  faint. 

"  Ah !  there  are  few  men  outside  of  heaven,"  contin- 
ued Solomon,  "  who  know  the  fine  points  of  female  cha- 
racter and  beauty  as  well  as  I  do.  I  have  not  lived  for 
sixty  years  with  my  eyes  in  my  head  and  not  learned 
something." 


348  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

"  I  know  it,"  replied  Susannah ;  and  tear  number  one 
hung  like  a  dewdrop  upon  her  left  eyelashes  and  glit- 
tered in  the  candlelight.  Solomon  thought  he  had  never 
seen  anything  so  lovely. 

There  was  silence.  Shadrack  and  Betsey  were  in  the 
kitchen  together  devising  charms  and  telling  ghost- 
stories.  The  room  was  chilly ;  Solomon  laid  a  fresh  log 
on  the  dying  embers.  Then  he  returned  to  his  chair 
and  accidentally  pushed  it  a  yard  nearer  to  Susannah. 
Tear  number  one  trickled  down  her  cheek,  and  tear  num- 
ber two  started  from  her  right  eye.  She  had  resolved 
not  to  faint. 

There  was  silence  for  five  minutes.  Solomon  and  Su- 
sannah were  both  thinking.  The  candle  needed  snuffing. 
Solomon  snuffed  it,  and  somehow  or  other,  before  he 
had  again  taken  his  seat,  his  chair  got  within  a  foot  of 
that  of  Susannah. 

"  I  tell  thee,  Miss  Susannah,"  he  said,  with  a  profound 
sigh — "  I  tell  thee  it  is  nice  in  old  age  to  have  somebody 
to  lean  upon,  somebody  to  comfort  you.  I  am  not  an 
old  man,  nor  are  you  an  old  woman — " 

"  Only  forty-nine,"  put  in  Susannah. 

"  Forty-nine's  nothing.  You  look  as  fresh  as  a  wench 
of  twenty.  Still,  it  is  nice  to  have  one  near  to  you  to 
make  you  happy  and  protect  your  rights.  As  my  old 
woman  used  to  say  to  me, '  Solomon,  you  are  the  boy  to 
make  a  wife  contented ;'  and  so  I  was,  and  am  yet.  I 
never  swore  at  a  woman  in  my  life,  and  couldn't ;  nobody 
else  would  that  called  himself  a  man.  As  the  parson 
says,  '  Swearing  lips  are  a'  something — I  forget  the  word 
— '  to  the  Lord.'  But  don't  you  think,  Miss  Susannah, 
it  is  pretty  to  see  the  ivy  twined  around  the  oak,  the 


A   MERRY  LEGEND.  349 

vine  climbing  on  the  wall  and  the  sweet  peas  and  kid- 
ney-beans growing  up  the  poles  ?" 

"  It's  a  beautiful  symbol  of  affection,  Solomon.  It's 
as  beautiful  as  a  rainbow  resting  on  a  cloud." 

"  That's  what  I  say.  Miss  Susannah  " — his  chair  was 
close  to  her  now — "  you  have  learning ;  you  know  what's 
what.  Now,  let  my  shoulder  be  the  cloud  and  your  little 
head  the  rainbow ;"  and  he  slipped  his  arm  along  the 
back  of  Susannah's  chair,  and  in  another  moment  the 
red  tresses  were  lying  in  blissful  repose  against  his 
stalwart  side. 

There  was  silence.  The  log  on  the  fire  hissed  and 
blazed.  Solomon  looked  into  the  fire ;  Susannah  looked 
down  the  years. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Solomon  at  last,  "  that  I  love 
you — love  you  with  all  my  heart?" 

"  You  don't  mean  it,"  replied  Susannah ;  "  you  men 
say  such  things  without  thinking  about  it." 

"  Did  ever  any  man  say  that  to  you  before  ?" 

"  No — at  least,  not  that  I  remember." 

"  You  would  have  remembered  if  one  had ;  so  you 
ought  not  to  say  I  don't  tell  the  truth."  This  with  a 
slightly-injured  accent. 

"  I  didn't  mean  it,  Solomon."  This  very  penitently. 
"  I  only  said  it  to  try  you.  I  know  you  love  me ;  I 
knew  you  loved  me  from  the  day  you  called  me  a  brute 
and  a  beast." 

"  I  never  called  you  that." 

"  Shadrack  said  you  did." 

"  I'll  make  him  prove  it." 

"  Never  mind ;  it  was  all  right.  I  gave  you  credit  for 
being  a  kind-hearted  man." 


350  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

"  Well,  I  never  said  it ;  I'll  swear  to  that.  •  I  couldn't 
do  such  a  thing." 

"  Only  figuratively,  as  the  parson  says ;  and  I  took  it 
figuratively,  and  thought  more  of  you  ever  since." 

"  Do  you  think  enough  of  me  to  take  me  for  better  or 
for  worse  ?" 

"  Oh,  Solomon !"  this  softly  and  happily. 

"  I  have  loved  you,  Susannah,  for  sixteen  years.  Will 
you  have  me  ?" 

"  I  must  think  about  it." 

"  No,  no !  don't  think  about  it.  Take  me  without 
thinking.  Oh,  Susannah,  if  you  don't  marry  me,  I  shall 
die!" 

"You'll  do  that,  any  way;  you're  sixty  now,  and 
you'll  not  live  another  twenty  years."  She  spoke  sym- 
pathetically and  dolefully. 

"  I  shall  not  live  twenty  days  if  you  say  '  No.'  Be 
kind,  Susannah,  and  don't  let  me  go  before  my  time." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  die." 

"  You  are  the  only  one  that  can  save  my  life." 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  must  save  it.  It  would  only  be  a 
charity  to  keep  a  good  man  in  the  world." 

Solomon  kissed  Susannah,  and  Susannah  kissed  Solo- 
mon. There  was  silence,  there  was  sweetness,  there  was 
sublimity. 

"  Solomon  dear,  you  had  better  go  home." 

"Yes,  Susannah.  Good-night.  Shall  Christmas  be 
the  wedding-day?" 

"  If  you  are  good.  Now  go,  but  please  don't  tell  any- 
body." 

"  No,  no !    Bye-bye !" 

And  as  Solomon's  footsteps  died  away  in  the  distance 


A   MERRY  LEGEND.  351 

Aunt  Susannah  said  to  herself, "  He  said  I  was  a  beauty, 
and  now  I  am  to  be  his  wife.  Dear  me !  how  my  head 
aches !  I  have  never  been  through  such  a  time  in  my 
life.  He's  a  good,  a  dear  good,  man.  Now,  I  wonder 
what  Shadrack  and  Betsey  are  at  ?  I  had  forgot  all  about 
them.  But  he's  a  dear  good  man  ;"  and  away  she  went 
to  the  kitchen. 

This  was  what  Shadrack  and  Betsey  were  doing :  first 
of  all,  both  were  trying  to  discover  what  time  had  in 
store  for  them ;  secondly,  both  were  seeking  for  fuel  to 
feed  the  fire  burning  in  each  of  their  hearts;  and  thirdly, 
each  was  striving  to  comfort  the  other.  In  the  first  of 
these  objects  Betsey  had  the  advantage,  for  she  knew  all 
the  omens  and  charms  then  and  thereabouts  believed  in ; 
in  the  second  Shadrack  was  the  better  equipped,  for  he 
was  poetically  inclined  and  had  the  ideal  of  the  beautiful 
Myrtle  in  his  mind ;  in  the  third  each  had  equal  powers, 
for  each  knew  the  joys  of  love  and  the  griefs  of  unre- 
quited affection.  For  one  thing,  they  had  never  been 
left  alone  so  long  before,  and  therefore  they  had  a  fair 
chance  to  procure  the  best  of  their  desires.  Betsey 
gave  Shadrack  the  remains  of  a  huge  apple-pudding, 
and  while  he  was  eating  it  she  told  him  a  story  of  a 
haunted  house  that  made  his  blood  run  cold  and  his 
skin  get  "  goose-fleshed."  He  ate  the  pudding  and 
listened.  It  seemed  some  beautiful  girl  broke  her  heart 
over  a  faithless  swain  and  then  took  to  walking  in  the 
night-time.  Betsey  said  she  was  sure  she  would  do  the 
same  if  any  chap  were  false  to  her.  How  any  "  chap  " 
could  be  we  know  not,  for,  though  Betsey  was  but  a 
half-grown  girl  and  a  kitchen-maid  to  boot,  she  had  all 
the  making  of  a  good-looking — and,  indeed,  a  handsome 

23 


352  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

— woman  about  her.  Shadrack  thought  that  next  to 
Myrtle  she  was  perfection,  but  he  further  thought  that 
between  the  two  girls  was  a  difference  as  great  as  that 
between  the  rose  and  the  dandelion.  If  any  man  de- 
serted her,  he  said  he  would  drown  him;  to  which 
Betsey  replied  rather  pointedly  that  the  one  she  had 
selected  would  never  break  his  word.  Shadrack  nodded 
assent,  and  said  he  was  glad  to  hear  it.  Then  he  told 
her  over  again,  as  he  had  done  many  a  time  before, 
that  he  loved  a  sweet  girl,  but  he  never  gave  the  name ; 
so  Betsey  was  sure  it  was  she. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  she  loves  me,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  sure  she  does,"  exclaimed  Betsey. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  she  can't  help  herself." 

Shadrack  was  tickled  at  the  delicate  flattery.  Then 
they  got  the  leaves  out  of  the  tea-pot  and  put  them  in  a 
saucer  of  water ;  and  when  Betsey  saw  the  forms  they 
assumed,  she  was  more  confident  than  ever  in  her  own 
and  Shadrack's  good  fortune. 

"The  one  you  want,"  she  said,  "you  will  have,  and 
the  one  I  want  I  shall  have." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  it  ?"  asked  Shadrack. 

"  Certain  ;  everything  says  so." 

"  Well,"  said  Shadrack,  thoughtfully,  "  Providence  is 
always  kind  to  orphans.  You're  an  orphan,  Betsey  ?" 

if  Yes,"  she  replied,  with  some  pride. 

"  So  am  I,  and  therefore  we  agree  on  that  point." 

To  think  that  they  agreed  even  so  far  was  joy  inex- 
pressible to  poor  Betsey.  She  only  wished  that  Shad- 
rack  would  see  how  much  farther  they  could  be  one,  but 
he,  unconscious  youth,  held  his  peace.  So  they  sat  by 


A   MERRY  LEGEND.  353 

the  fire  talking  and  dreaming,  seeing  visions  in  the  fan- 
tastic embers  and  getting  happier  as  the  future  seemed 
to  dawn  with  glory.  They  were  very  still  when  Aunt 
Susannah  came  in.  Shadrack  was  leaning  over  as 
though  in  deep  study,  and  Betsey  was  sitting  beside 
him  smoothing  his  red  locks  and  wondering  why  he  did 
not  speak  the  mystic  words.  His  thoughts  were  far 
away — far  away  from  the  simple  maiden  at  his  side — 
with  the  Myrtle  Muriel  whom  he  had  seen  but  once  and 
thought  he  should  now  love  for  ever. 

"  That's  what  you're  doing !"  said  his  aunt,  recalling 
him  from  his  reverie  and  frightening  Betsey  almost  into 
a  fit.  "  Be  off  to  bed,  you  bad,  good-for-nothing  Betty, 
and  you  too,  Shadrack,  and  let  me  never  see  you  do 
that  again." 

"  What  ?"  asked  Shadrack. 

"  Never  mind.     Be  off;  that's  all." 

"  I  wonder  if  that  is  all  ?"  said  Betsey  to  herself  as 
she  went  up  the  garret  stairs.  "  I  only  wish  it  were. 
But  never  mind,  old  Susannah;  I  shall  have  Shadrack 
one  of  these  days." 

"  I  shall  have  Myrtle,"  said  Shadrack  as  he  got  into 
bed ;  "  darling  Myrtle  will  be  mine." 

"  The  little  wretch !"  said  Aunt  Susannah  to  herself 
as  she  went  to  her  room ;  "  she's  after  my  orphan-boy. 
I'll  pay  her  up  in  the  morning.  I'll  keep  her  on  bread 
and  water  for  a  week :  that'll  cure  her.  And  I  am  to 
have  Solomon — dear,  good  soul !  and  he  said  I  was  a 
beauty — a  beauty !" 

The  Christmas-tide  had  always  been  celebrated  in  true 
English  and  ancient  form  in  the  old  farmhouse  when 


354  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

Shadrack's  father  was  alive,  and  now  that  he  was  dead 
Aunt  Susannah  decided  the  custom  should  be  kept  up 
the  same  as  ever.  Moreover,  Christmas  morning  was 
to  witness  the  completion  of  her  own  and  Solomon's 
hopes.  The  day  before  more  than  the  usual  prepara- 
tions were  made.  The  house  was  adorned  with  ever- 
greens— the  holly  and  the  ivy,  laurel,  bay,  box  and  rose- 
mary, and  a  huge  bunch  of  mistletoe  in  the  middle  of 
the  kitchen.  The  mighty  Yule-log  was  drawn  in  tri- 
umphantly and  left  ready  to  roll  on  the  festive  fire; 
geese,  ducks  and  turkeys  were  plucked ;  plum-puddings 
and  mince-pies  were  made ;  a  great  haunch  of  venison 
and  a  still  greater  sirloin  of  beef  were  prepared ;  a  more 
than  necessary  quantity  of  bread  was  baked,  but  bread 
baked  on  Christmas  Eve  never  gets  mouldy ;  and  Bet- 
sey saw  that  there  was  plenty  of  spice  and  crab-apples 
to  put  in  the  ale,  and  other  condiments  to  make  up  the 
wassail-bowl.  All  the  servants  on  the  farm,  the  rela- 
tions and  friends,  and  even  strangers,  were  invited,  as 
in  the  days  of  yore.  The  wedding-cake  had  been  made 
for  more  than  a  fortnight  and  carefully  locked  up  in  the 
parlor  cupboard,  where  every  day,  and  sometimes  twice 
in  the  day,  Aunt  Susannah  went  to  see  if  it  were  all 
right — neither  stolen  by  the  fairies  nor  eaten  by  the 
mice — and  to  think  for  a  few  minutes  of  the  precious 
Solomon.  Shadrack  did  all  he  could  to  further  the  al- 
most endless  arrangements.  He  made  up  his  mind  that 
old  Solomon  would  die  before  long,  so  the  wedding 
made  but  little  difference.  After  all,  it  was  better  for 
Aunt  Susannah  to  marry  a  man  on  in  years,  because,  if 
matrimony  disagreed  with  her,  the  end  would  not  be  so 
far  off.  Betsey  said  it  was  the  very  best  thing  that  could 


A  MERRY  LEGEND.  355 

happen,  and  she  had  foreseen  its  coming  from  the  very 
day  the  cuckoo  was  first  heard  last  spring  and  she  found 
in  Aunt  Susannah's  shoe  a  hair  the  actual  color  and 
shade  of  old  Solomon's. 

Christmas  Eve  set  in  cold  and  clear.  The  ground 
was  covered  with  snow  and  glistened  as  the  star-beams 
fell  upon  it  from  out  the  frosty  sky.  From  the  old 
church-tower,  nearly  a  mile  away,  came  the  sound  of 
the  merry  peals,  now  louder,  now  fainter,  as  the  wind 
blew.  A  goodly  company  were  assembled  in  the  large 
kitchen,  and  on  the  hearth  blazed  brightly  the  great  log. 
A  cheery  crowd  they  were,  too ;  not  a  heavy-hearted 
one  among  them.  They  laughed  and  sang,  now  a 
carol,  then  a  ballad,  then  a  ringing  chorus ;  some  told 
strange  stories  of  hobgoblins  and  ghosts,  but  they  felt 
safe,  for  on  this  night  no  spirits  walk  the  earth ;  then 
they  danced ;  then  came  blind-man's-buff  and  puss-in- 
the-corner  and  hide-and-seek ;  and  then  dancing  again. 
Gayly  played  the  old  fiddler,  and  far  more  gayly  did 
Solomon  and  Susannah  lead  the  jig.  And  every  time  a 
pause  came  in  each  drank  of  the  foaming  ale  or  of  the 
reeking  wassail.  Many  a  kiss  was  given  under  the  mis- 
tletoe ;  even  Betsey  got  one  from  Shadrack,  and,  as  she 
said  afterward,  it  was  better  than  anything  else  that  night. 
Other  girls  were  made  happy  in  like  manner,  but  she 
discovered  the  prognostic  of  her  bliss  in  the  fact  that 
that  morning  she  had  put  on  her  left  stocking  wrong 
side  out.  Nor  had  she  changed  that  stocking  when  she 
dressed  for  the  evening,  so  that  the  good  luck  might 
not  go  from  her,  and  therefore  she  wore  both  a  blue 
stocking  and  a  white  one,  which  somewhat  extraordi- 
nary fact  had  been  noticed  and  commented  upon  by 


THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

nearly  every  one  in  the  room.  Betsey  got  the  kiss, 
and  she  didn't  care  for  anybody. 

Three  hours  passed  away,  and  a  little  before  midnight 
and  soon  after  a  hearty  supper  the  company  began  to 
disperse,  some  to  sleep  off  the  effects  of  the  carousal, 
some  to  get  ready  for  the  morrow,  and  Solomon  and 
Susannah  to  dream  and  dress  for  the  bridal.  As  the 
clock  struck  twelve  Shadrack  and  two  or  three  of  the 
other  young  men  went  out  to  the  sheds  to  see  the  cat- 
tle go  down  on  their  knees,  as  they  do  at  that  time,  fol- 
lowing the  example  of  those  in  the  stable  at  Bethlehem, 
who  thus  did  homage  to  the  infant  Redeemer.  They 
also  went  to  the  hives  to  hear  the  bees  sing  their 
"  Gloria  in  Excelsis." 

Betsey  went  alone  into  the  garden.  She  looked  up 
at  the  bright  stars  and  listened  to  the  pealing  bells  as 
they  so  joyously  heralded  in  the  day  of  days.  Then 
she  went  to  the  sage-bush  and  carefully  plucked  twelve 
leaves,  but  the  shadowy  form  of  the  one  who  should 
make  her  a  bride  appeared  not.  She  made  a  cross  in 
the  snow  and  laid  thereon  a  sprig  of  holly  full  of  red 
berries,  but  he  came  not.  "  He's  an  orphan,"  she  said, 
in  her  disappointment,  "  and,  I  suppose,  is  beyond  the 
reach  even  of  Christmas-Eve  charms."  So  she  turned 
back,  and  ere  long  sought  her  little  attic-bed.  Poor 
Betsey !  and  she  loved  Shadrack  better,  far  better,  she 
said  over  and  over  again,  than  Susannah  loved  Solo- 
mon. But  before  she  laid  down  she  went  to  the  tiny 
latticed  window  and  looked  out  into  the  calm  night. 
The  bells  still  rang  on,  ringing  down  the  changes 
rapidly  and  sweetly.  She  saw  the  garden  quiet  and 
deserted,  the  woods  with  their  leafless  and  snow-laden 


A   MERRY  LEGEND.  357 

branches,  the  cottages  in  the  distance  with  their  now- 
whitened  thatch,  the  church  on  the  hill  far  away  and 
the  light  gleaming  from  the  belfry,  and  now  and  then 
an  owl  sweeping  silently  across  the  fields  and  a  brilliant 
meteor  rushing  amid  the  star-streams.  And  as  she  stood 
peering  through  the  diamond  panes  she  fell  into  musing 
— this  half-grown  girl  with  an  uncultured  mind,  but  a 
loving  heart.  Would  Shadrack  Abednego  ever  be 
hers?  Would  she,  poor  Cinderella  II.,  ever  be  a 
bride  ?  Ah !  maidens  poor  as  she  had  been  highly 
blessed,  even  as  was  Mary,  the  virgin  mother.  The 
Christmas  story  came  to  her — the  stable  at  the  inn, 
the  manger-cradle,  the  kindly  Joseph,  the  Divine  Child, 
the  adoring  shepherds.  She  saw  it  all,  and  almost 
thought  she  saw  the  heavenly  host  wheeling  in  clouds 
of  light  overhead :  " '  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest !' 
That  was  what  the  parson  said  the  angels  sang  this 
blessed  night,  and  he  said  the  Babe  was  the  good  God 
that  loveth  even  me;"  and  she  thought  it  passing 
strange  that  He  who  made  the  shining  stars  should 
look  upon  a  poor  kitchen-maid.  Could  he  love  a  girl 
that  scrubbed  the  floor  and  did  odds  and  ends  about  the 
house  ?  No  wonder  the  angels  sang !  She  could  sing 
too.  And  the  tears  began  to  flow,  but  they  were  not 
sorrowful  tears. 

Again  Betsey  looked  down  into  the  garden.  There 
was  the  cross  in  the  snow  close  by  the  old  cedar  tree. 
How  dark  it  looked  on  the  white  ground !  There  were 
the  scattered  sage-leaves,  and  there  were  foot-tracks. 
That  was  all.  No !  Betsey's  blood  began  to  creep ;  she 
shivered  with  fear.  Out  in  the  shadow  of  the  cedar  she 
saw  a  misty  figure,  a  white  cloud  in  human  shape.  The 


358     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND, 

enchantment  was  working  at  last !  Who  could  it  be  ? 
It  must,  of  course,  be  Shadrack ;  who  else  could  be 
Betsey's  groom  ?  The  indistinct  form  moved  out  of  the 
dark  cedar  shade,  and  against  the  clear  snow  became 
more  vague  than  ever.  It  stopped  at  the  cross  and 
picked  up  the  holly-sprig  and  one  of  the  sage- leaves. 
Then  it  moved  slowly  away,  till  at  last  it  vanished  and 
Betsey  saw  it  no  more.  She  was  both  frightened  and 
satisfied.  She  had  hoped  her  charm  would  succeed, 
and  yet  she  did  not  altogether  believe  it  would.  Now, 
beyond  a  doubt,  Shadrack  would  be  the  one.  The  more 
she  pondered  the  matter  over,  the  more  certain  it  be- 
came. Had  not  the  figure  Shadrack's  tall  and  youth- 
like  form  ?  Was  not  the  hair  Shadrack's  hair  ?  Nobody 
else  could  come,  for  he  was  the  one  she  loved.  So, 
happy  and  hopeful,  she  lay  down  to  sleep — if  possible, 
to  dream  of  the  good  fortune  which  awaited  her  in  the 
bright  by  and  by. 

Before  the  sun  arose  that  Christmas  morn  came  the 
waits  with  their  hand-bells,  and  a  little  later  village 
children  singing  carols.  As  their  "  God  rest  you,  merry 
gentlemen  !"  filled  the  clear  air  Shadrack  hastened  to 
the  kitchen  that  he  might  help  give  each  rustic  min- 
strel and  songster  the  customary  dole.  After  breakfast 
the  usual  Christmas  boxes  were  given  and  accepted. 
Among  the  many  which  Shadrack  received  was  a  flute 
from  old  Solomon,  made  by  himself  out  of  the  wood  of 
an  elder  tree  which  grew  far  beyond  the  sound  of  cock- 
crowing — a  great  help  to  the  melody  of  a  musical  in- 
strument, for  everybody  knows  that  the  song  of  the 
chanticleer  dulls  and  injures  the  elder- wood.  Shadrack 
looked  upon  the  flute  as  a  token  of  great  affection,  and 


A  MERRY  LEGEND.  359 

he  trusted  that  Solomon  would  live  for  some  years  yet 
to  hear  him  play  it — an  accomplishment  he  resolved 
forthwith  to  acquire.  Nine  o'clock  was  the  time  ap- 
pointed for  the  wedding,  and  Shadrack,  in  spite  of  his 
improved  feelings  toward  the  bridegroom,  was  rather 
sorry  he  could  not  join  his  boy-friends  in  the  time- 
honored  Christmas  sport  of  hunting  owls  and  squirrels. 
Solomon  came  over  dressed  in  a  new  suit — very  fine 
corduroy  knee-breeches,  a  richly-decorated  silk  vest,  a 
plush  velvet  coat,  a  great  beaver  hat  and  red  cardinal 
hose.  He  was  straight  in  figure  and  smiling  in  counte- 
nance. Everybody  remarked  upon  his  youthful  appear- 
ance :  Mr.  Solomon  never  looked  so  well  before  Aunt 
Susannah  had  sent  off  to  the  churchyard  before  she  be- 
gan to  dress,  to  make  sure  that  no  grave  was  open — a 
point  of  vast  importance.  Then  she  arrayed  herself  in 
her  gay  attire,  and  in  good  time  the  whole  party  set  out 
for  the  church. 

Brightly  shone  the  sun ;  the  sacred  edifice  was  gay 
with  festal  dress  and  filled  with  interested  spectators. 
The  ceremony  went  on  and  was  concluded,  as  nearly  all 
such  ceremonies  are,  without  let  or  hindrance.  Solomon 
and  Susannah  were  pronounced  man  and  wife;  they 
were  happy  and  Shadrack  had  an  uncle.  He  even 
kissed  his  new  relative,  who  in  his  delight  at  getting 
Susannah  kissed  first  every  woman  in  the  company, 
then  every  man,  and  finished  with  the  parson.  Then 
the  books  were  signed  and  the  bells  began  to  ring,  and 
Solomon  led  his  bride  to  the  family  pew.  Soon  the 
morning  service  began,  and  after  a  short  sermon  every- 
body started  for  home  very  well  satisfied  that  the  sing- 
ers had  never  sung  better,  nor  the  parson  preached 


360     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

more  eloquently,  nor  the  church  appeared  to  greater 
advantage,  nor  a  bridal  pair  looked  more  interesting. 

Some  good-natured  neighbors  threw  several  pairs  of 
old  shoes  after  the  newly-married  couple  as  they  passed 
by,  and  on  reaching  the  house  broken  cake  was  sprink- 
led over  them.  Betsey  managed  to  be  the  first  one  to 
steal  a  pin  from  the  bride  and  to  rub  her  shoulder 
against  her,  which  feats  were  regarded  by  all  as  highly 
fortunate  and  promising.  All  the  other  pins  used  by 
Susannah  were  as  speedily  as  possible  thrown  away. 
Then  the  happy  soul  sat  down  and  tried  to  cry.  Woe 
betide  the  bride  who  on  her  wedding-day  does  not  shed 
a  tear !  But  she  could  do  nothing  but  laugh,  she  was 
so  pleased  and  contented.  They  pinched  her  and  tickled 
her ;  one  fat  woman  stepped  upon  her  corn,  but  in  vain. 
They  brought  a  piece  of  beef  highly  seasoned  with 
mustard,  but  she  ate  it  and  not  a  mist  of  moisture  ap- 
peared in  her  eye.  Some  one  urged  Solomon  to  swear 
at  her,  but  he  declined.  The  more  they  tried,  the  more 
she  laughed.  She  could  not  even  go  into  hysterics, 
though  they  set  seven  bottles  of  smelling-salts  in  a  row 
on  the  table  before  her.  At  last  Betsey  brought  in  a 
pan  of  onions  and  began  to  peel  them  under  her  nose, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  the  tears  came.  All  was  well. 
Solomon  kissed  her  and  the  company  were  satisfied. 
Doubtless,  Susannah  would  get  along  all  right  in  her 
new  sphere  of  life. 

The  day  drew  joyously  to  its  close.  Before  the  sun 
went  down  old  and  young  were  merry  as  merry  could 
be.  They  feasted  and  drank  gayly  and  heartily.  The 
house  rang  with  the  happy  revelry.  Nobody  thought 
of  cares  and  toil  to  come.  This  was  a  happy  Christmas, 


A  MERRY  LEGEND.  361 

and  a  wedding-day  besides,  and  who  had  evil  heart 
enough  to  be  sad  ? 

"  I  say,  Shaddy,"  whispered  Betsey  to  her  wished-for 
lord  as  they  sat  for  a  few  minutes  in  a  distant  corner  of 
the  room  to  rest  after  a  violent  game — "  I  say,  Shaddy, 
it  seems  to  me  love  is  a  sweet  thing." 

"  Yes,  Betsey ;  that  boy  in  the  gray  smock  over  there 
says  it's  like  bread  and  butter  with  sugar  on  the  top." 

"  He  doesn't  know.  It's  more  like  sugar  with  the 
bread  and  butter  thrown  in.  But  just  to  see  old  Sol- 
omon and  your  aunt  Susie  in  the  chimney-corner  beats 
all  I  ever  heard  of.  First  he  kisses  her,  then  she  kisses 
him.  Look  at  them  now !  One  moment  she  asks  him 
if  he  likes  roast  turkey  better  than  boiled  goose ;  the 
next  he  asks  her  if  she  likes  her  ale  warm  with  a  roasted 
crab  bobbing  in  it.  And  he  smooths  her  dress,  and  see ! 
that's  the  fifth  time  this  very  night  she's  tied  up  his  gar- 
ter. I  believe  he  unties  it  on  purpose.  They  seem  to 
forget  that  there's  anybody  here  but  themselves." 

"  Oh  Betsey,  love,  you  know,  is  always  forgetful,"  ob- 
served Shadrack,  thoughtfully. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?     I  don't." 

"  I  couldn't  say  for  certain,  but  that's  the  saying." 

"Well,  the  saying  is  wrong.  Do  you  think,  Shad- 
rack,  you  would  ever  forget  the  girl  you  loved?" 

"  Never !  never !"  he  replied,  with  unusual  decision 
and  vigor. 

"  Have  you  ever  really  loved  ?"  she  asked,  after  a 
moment's  pause. 

"  Oh,  Betsey,  I  am  in  love  now.  I  love  a  beautiful 
girl — the  one,  you  know,  I  saw  in  my  dream.  I  am  dy- 
ing with  love,-1' 


362  THE  HEART  OF  M ERR  IE  ENGLAND. 

"  You  won't  die ;  nobody  dies  with  love.  They  may 
die  with  eating  too  much,  but  no  man  ever  died  with 
love." 

"Why  not?" 

"  They  don't  love  enough ;  and  if  they  do  love  enough, 
they  always  succeed  before  love  kills  them." 

"  I  love —  Oh,  Betsey,  I  love  as  no  one  else  ever 
loved.  I  do  believe — " 

"That  you  are  the  first  man  who  knew  what  love 
is  ?"  interrupted  Betsey.  "  But  I  noticed  you  ate  as 
much  roast  beef  and  as  many  mince-pies  as  the  rest; 
and  if  you  were  so  deeply  in  love,  you  couldn't  eat  like 
that.  The  larger  the  heart  gets,  the  less  room  there  is 
for  the  stomach." 

"  I  have  to  eat,  you  know.  Uncle  Solomon,  there, 
has  done  little  else  but  eat  and  drink  all  day.  I  believe 
we  shall  have  to  carry  him  to  bed  yet." 

"He's  an  old  fool,"  said  Betsey,  decidedly.  "But 
have  you  ever  told  your  girl  you  loved  her?" 

"  No ;  I  have  had  no  chance,  and  I  don't  believe  I 
could.  I  don't  know  what  to  say." 

"  That's  another  proof  you're  not  in  love,  Think  of 
a  fellow  being  in  love  and  not  knowing  what  to  say ! 
Why,  love  has  a  tongue  of  its  own,  and  a  tongue  that 
can  speak  too,  I  tell  you.  All  you  have  to  do — at  least, 
all  that  you,  Shaddy,  would  have  to  do — is  to  go  straight 
to  your  heart's  love  and  say  to  her,  'Sweetheart,  may  I 
love  you  ?'  and  she  would  say,  '  Love  me  ?  Ay,  till 
death !' " 

"  I  never  could  say  that,"  replied  Shadrack ;  "  I  should 
drop  before  the  words  were  out  of  my  mouth." 

"  Well,  don't  say  anything,  then ;  actions  speak  louder 


A   MERRY  LEGEND.  363 

than  words  sometimes.  Sit  down  beside  her  and  look 
into  her  face.  You  could  do  that  ?  All  right.  Then 
take  her  by  the  hand,  then  put  your  arm  around  her 
neck,  then  kiss  her,  and  she  will  understand  the  rest." 

"  But  suppose  she  shouldn't  ?"  said  the  doubtful  Shad- 
rack. 

"  But  she  will — oh,  I  know  she  will !  Every  girl 
knows  what  that  means.  Just  try  it  and  see." 

"  I  will,  Betsey.  I'll  take  the  first  chance,  though  I've 
never  had  one  yet." 

"  I  suppose  you  keep  putting  it  off  and  saying,  *  Next 
time !  next  time !'  There's  no  time  like  the  present." 

"  That's  true.  But  see !  Tom  Hodges  is  looking  for 
me.  I  must  run." 

"  Tom  Hodges  is  always  in  the  way,"  said  Betsey  to 
herself  after  Shadrack  had  left  her;  "another  minute, 
and  Shaddy  would  have  been  mine.  Oh  dear !  a  heart- 
ful  of  love  is  a  heavy  burden.  But  the  figure  was  Shad- 
dy's ;  that's  as  clear  as  cream.  And  hasn't  my  right  eye 
itched  all  day — a  sure  sign  that  I  should  see  my  love  ? 
And  who  could  my  .love  be  but  Shadrack  ?  If  old  Sol- 
omon got  the  aunt,  why  shouldn't  I  get  the  nephew — 
more  so,  seeing  he's  an  orphan  ?  It's  all  right ;  only  I 
do  wish  Tom  Hodges  hadn't  come  at  all.  Shadrack 
nearly  got  it  out — nearly  told  me  I  was  the  one  he  loved 
with  all  his  heart.  This  is  a  merry  Christmas  for  me ! 
But  now  for  the  dishes;  I  suppose  I  must  go  and  help 
wash  them.  Oh,  Shaddy,  for  your  sake !  for  your  sake  !" 
and  she  left  the  room. 

Over  this  day  we  drop  the  curtain — drop  it  amid  the 
flourish  of  trumpets  and  the  scraping  of  violins ;  and 
again  we  move  on  to  a  bright  day  a  year  and  a  half  far- 


364  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  E  KG  LAND. 

ther  down  time's  stream,  when  June  birds  were  singing 
and  June  flowers  were  blooming. 

Beyond  the  fact  of  everybody  and  everything  being 
so  many  months  older,  there  was  little  change  in  the 
home  where  Solomon  and  Susannah  now  held  united 
sway,  and  Shadrack  awaited  the  time  when  he  would 
become  lord  and  master.  There  was  peace.  Solomon 
and  Susannah  were  happy ;  no  disturbance  had  come 
near  them.  Their  love  flowed  on  in  the  same  even 
course.  Betsey  had  not  yet  heard  the  words  that  should 
rejoice  her  heart.  She  wondered,  but  still  believed.  In 
the  mean  time,  she  had  developed  into  a  comely  damsel, 
and  had  received  many  compliments  from  the  young 
men  of  the  neighborhood,  but' she  kept  faithful  to  Shad- 
rack.  Every  charm  she  tried,  whether  successful  or  not, 
convinced  her  that  he  was  destined  for  her.  Why  he 
held  his  peace  she  could  not  understand.  She  had 
again  and  again  tried  to  help  him,  but  he  did  not  seem 
to  grasp  the  idea.  So,  looking  upon  his  silence  as  an 
infirmity  of  orphanage,  she  quietly  and  assuredly  waited 
the  time. 

As  to  Shadrack,  never  but  once  had  he  seen  the  idol 
of  his  heart,  Myrtle  Muriel.  That  young  lady  had  been 
away,  and  had  only  just  returned  to  the  parish.  Ru- 
mors of  her  growing  beauty  had  reached  Shadrack  and 
helped  to  strengthen  his  unswerving  loyalty.  He  sought 
to  see  her,  but  for  some  time  in  vain,  till  one  day  he 
met  her  unexpectedly,  and  once  and  for  all. 

In  an  afternoon  in  June  when  the  sun  was  shining 
brightly  and  the  wind  scarcely  moved  the  fresh  green 
leaves  Shadrack  was  wandering  alone  in  the  woods.  As 


A  MERRY  LEGEND.  365 

he  walked  along  the  little  path,  now  listening  to  the 
blackbird's  song,  now  admiring  the  white  May-bloom, 
now  peering  into  the  thicket  or  the  bush  where  busy 
songsters  were  building  their  nests,  and  now  watching 
the  tiny  streamlet  as  it  dashed  down  the  hill,  he  thought 
and  dreamed.  Quite  a  philosopher  had  he  become 
since  the  day  when  Cupid's  arrow  rather  than  Betsey's 
pin  pierced  his  heart.  Imagination  had  perforce  to  take 
the  place  of  reality;  and  when  imagination  is  thus 
obliged  to  work,  it  responds  heartily  and  happily.  So 
now  Shadrack  walked  on  picturing  to  himself  the 
glories  of  Myrtle  Muriel.  One  moment  he  arrayed  her 
in  sylph-like  drapery  white  as  the  peach-blossom;  the 
next  she  was  as  though  dipped  in  liquid  gold — a  sort  of 
theatrical  and  bronze-tint  appearance ;  then  she  was  ra- 
diant in  rainbow  hues,  and  then  pure  and  white  again. 
He  rather  liked  to  think  of  her  with  her  hair  hanging 
in  long  wavy  tresses,  her  eyes  bright  and  brimful  of 
mischief  and  her  sweet  voice  prattling  merry  nonsense. 
And  to-day  the  old  picture  came  up  again,  and  the  old 
dream  went  on  the  same  as  before,  from  the  day  she 
consented  to  be  his  bride  till  the  early  morn  when  the 
sun-glory  fell  upon  them  both.  When  he  reached  this 
stage  in  his  castle-building,  he  began  to  whistle  and 
move  along  more  briskly.  He  felt  already  a  joyous  vic- 
tory and  fancied  the  laurel-wreath  rested  on  his  brow. 
As  he  continued  to  walk  he  suddenly  came  to  a  little 
knoll  from  the  summit  of  which  was  to  be  had  a  fine 
view  of  both  plain  and  woodland.  He  knew  the  spot 
well,  but  this  time  his  heart  began  to  leap;  for  there, 
seated  on  this  knoll,  was  none  other  than  the  dream  of 
his  life,  the  beautiful  Myrtle.  She  was  alone,  sketching. 


366  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

Shadrack  stood  still,  at  first  scarcely  knowing  what  to 
do.  Yet  so  much  had  he  thought  of  her,  so  often  had 
he  gone  over  imaginary  interviews  with  her,  that  he  felt 
brave  enough  for  anything  that  might  happen.  He 
paused  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  advanced.  She 
looked  up,  but  evidently  recognized  him,  or,  at  least,  in- 
stinctively discerned  him  to  be  one  from  whom  she  had 
nothing  to  fear.  She  even  went  so  far  as  to  return  his 
not  ungraceful  bow ;  and  when  he  said,  "  Good-after- 
noon, miss,"  she  replied,  "  Good-afternoon,  sir."  What 
a  wonderful  voice !  How  sweetly  its  accents  lingered  in 
the  summer  air ! 

"  This  is  a  beautiful  country,  miss,"  observed  Shad- 
rack,  both  proud  of  his  native  parish  and  by  this  time 
able  to  appreciate  such  things. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  with  almost  equal  enthusiasm ; 
"  I  think  that  road  yonder  running  under  the  avenue  of 
elms  by  the  old  barn  is  lovely.  I  am  trying  to  sketch 
it." 

"  May  I  look  at  your  picture  ?"  asked  Shadrack,  with 
respectful  deference. 

"  Certainly,"  said  she,  "  but  it  is  not  what  it  might  be. 
No  artist  could  reproduce  that  green  lane;  it  is  better 
than  anything  I  saw  in  Italy,  and  simply  beyond  copy- 
ing. But  I  have  done  my  best." 

"  And  your  best,"  said  he,  with  unfeigned  admiration, 
"is  pure  perfection.  The  sketch  is  prettier  than  the 
thing  itself.  That  hedge  is  well  done,  and  nothing 
could  be  better  than  the  cow  looking  over  the  gate.  I 
remember  one  evening  when  it  was  almost  dark  my  aunt 
Susannah —  You  must  know  her,  Miss  Myrtle,  for  I 
am  Shadrack  Abednego  Pruce,  her  nephew." 


A   MERRY  LEGEND.  367 

Myrtle  nodded  assent. 

"Well,  she  was  walking  along  that  very  lane  when 
suddenly  she  saw  what  she  thought  was  a  ghost  sitting 
on  that  gate.  Away  she  ran  as  fast  as  her  feet  could 
carry  her ;  but  when  I  got  up  to  the  place — I  was  be- 
hind, you  know — I  saw  it  was  nothing  but  a  cow,  just 
as  you  have  it  in  your  picture.  How  I  laughed  at  her 
when  I  got  home !  She  would  say, '  Any  way,  it  had  a 
long  face,'  and  I  would  say, '  So  has  the  cow,  auntie ;' 
and  she  said  no  more.  Now,  when  she  says  that  a  cer- 
tain unmentionable  individual  has  horns  or  hoofs  or  a 
tail,  I  always  reply  '  So  has  the  cow ;'  and  I  do  believe 
she  prays  every  night  that  I  may  not  be  punished  for 
my  profanity  by  having  to  spend  some  time  with  that 
nameless  gentleman.  '  Should  you,'  she  observes,  '  you 
would  never  forget  it ;'  and  I  don't  suppose  I  ever 
should.  But  you  have  hit  it  splendidly.  I  never  saw 
anything  so  good." 

"  I  remember  your  aunt  Susannah,"  said  Myrtle, 
pleased  at  Shadrack's  praise.  "  You  lost  your  father 
and  mother,  did  you  not?" 

"  Yes ;  I  am  an  orphan." 

"  I  know — of  course  you  must  be  if  your  parents  are 
dead — and  pretty  lonely  you  must  be." 

"  Oh  no,"  replied  Shadrack ;  "  I  am  a  lone  orphan,  as 
Betsey  says,  but  I  am  not  lonely.  You  see,  I  have 
plenty  to  do  and  my  health  is  good.  I  am  always  well 
and  can  always  eat,  day  or  night,  and  never  get  tired." 

"  Ah !  you  are  a  big,  strong  young  man." 

Shadrack  felt  that  he  had  grown  another  ten  inches  at 
once. 

"  I  am  nearly  six  feet  high  and  shall  soon  be  eighteen 

24 


368  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

years  old,"  said  he,  "  and  there's  not  a  man  a  surer  shot 
than  I  am.  I  have  killed  a  snipe  on  the  wing — a  thing 
few  sportsmen  can  boast  of.  Oh,  but  it  was  fun  !  May 
I  sit  down  on  the  grass  and  tell  you  about  it  ?  Thank 
you.  There  isn't  much  to  tell,  when  I  think  of  it.  It 
was  down  in  the  low  meadow  there ;  you  can  see  the 
very  spot  from  where  you  are  sitting.  I  and  Uncle 
Solomon  were  about  with  our  guns  looking  for  any- 
thing that  might  turn  up.  I  had  learned  so  much  as  to 
shoot  a  rabbit  running,  but  I  had  never  shot  a  snipe  fly- 
ing. '  Very  few  men  ever  have,'  said  Uncle  Solomon. — 
'  What  if  I  should  ?'  asked  I. — '  I'll  give  you  my  best 
gun,'  he  replied.  The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his 
mouth  when  up  sprang  a  snipe.  In  an  instant  I  fired, 
and  the  bird  fell.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  cried,  '  My 
best  gun  !  my  best  gun !  But,  Shaddy,  old  fellow,  lend 
it  me  the  rest  of  my  days,  and  you  shall  have  it  when  I 
am  gone.'  How  I  teased  him !  No,  I  must  have  it 
there  and  then.  I  saw  the  tears  in  his  eyes,  so  I  prom- 
ised to  lend  him  the  gun  if  he  would  stuff  the  bird  for 
me.  He  did  so,  and  it's  now  in  a  glass  case  in  our  par- 
lor. I  have  heard  it  said  that  I  shall  never  shoot  another 
snipe  like  that ;  the  chance  comes  only  once  in  a  life- 
time." 

"  How's  that  ?"  asked  Myrtle,  very  much  interested  in 
the  boyish  story. 

"  The  bird  flies  so  zigzag.  Some  say  it's  like  a  girl : 
you  see  her  here,  and  the  next  moment  she's  there." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Myrtle,  smiling. 

"  No,  it  isn't  true,"  replied  Shadrack,  positively ;  "  I 
don't  believe  it.  I  don't  believe  half  the  things  they 
say  about  girls.  Solomon  says  there's  only  one  first- 


A   MERR  Y  LEGEND.  369 

rate  girl  in  the  country,  and  that's  Aunt  Susie,  but  I 
know  there's  at  least  another." 

"  That  May-bloom  over  there  is  beautiful,  isn't  it  ?" 
said  Myrtle,  pointing  to  a  hedge  white  with  blos- 
soms. 

"  Yes ;  but  there,  again !  the  greatest  beauty  in  the 
world  is  to  be  found  in  a  girl's  eyes." 

"  Don't  believe  it,  Mr.  Shadrack.  Girls'  eyes  are  de- 
ceitful, sometimes,  at  least.  They  are  pretty  and 
changeable  as  April  skies.  The  man  who  trusts  them 
makes  a  mistake." 

"  No,  no !"  interposed  Shadrack ;  "  the  eye  is  the  win- 
dow of  the  heart,  and  there  is  nothing  in  a  good  girl's 
heart  but  what  is  of  heaven." 

"  You  are  a  young  admirer  of  the  sex.  But  then  all 
girls  are  not  good." 

"  Perhaps  not.  I  never  saw  one,  though,  that  wasn't 
good.  My  mother  was  good,  so  is  Aunt  Susannah,  so 
is  Betsey,  so  are  you,  and — " 

"  But  you  don't  know  me,"  said  Myrtle. 

"  Not  know  you  !"  said  the  enthusiastic  youth.  "  Do 
you  think  I  don't  know  every  tree  in  this  wood  ?  Well, 
I  know  you  better  than  I  know  them.  I  have  dreamed 
and  thought  of  you  for  two  full  years,  and,  though  I 
have  seen  you  but  once,  I  have  lived  as  though  I  saw 
you  all  the  time." 

Myrtle  blushed — rather  with  delight  than  with  dis- 
pleasure. She  got  up  and  said  with  a  half  smile, 

"You  read  romances,  fair  sir;  young  gentlemen  all 
do.  But  I  must  go;  so  good-day.  Many  thanks  for 
your  company.  No,  thank  you ;  I'll  carry  the  book 
myself.  There,  now!  Good-bye." 


370  THF  HEART  OF  ME  ERIE  ENGLAND. 

"  But,  Miss  Myrtle,"  said  Shadrack,  desperately — 
"Miss  Myrtle,  this  is  the  only  chance  I  may  have  of 
seeing  you,  and — " 

"  Were  you  looking  for  a  silly  girl  when  you  found 
me?"  she  asked,  laughingly. 

"  No ;  only  I  have  been  wanting  to  see  you  for  so 
long,  and  this  is  the  first  time.  May  I  not  tell  you  all  ? 
I  am  only  a  country  youth,  but  by  and  by  I  shall  be  next 
man  to  your  father  in  the  parish.  I  have  red  hair — I 
know  it — and  am  too  big  and  gawky,  but  I  have  a  good 
heart,  and  you  know — " 

"  There,  now !  not  another  word,  my  noble  youth. 
You  are  a  valiant  knight  to  woo  the  first  maiden  you 
meet  in  the  merry  greenwood !  Prithee  walk  a  little 
farther  off.  So  runs  the  language  of  the  books,  but  you 
know  them  better  than  I.  Nay,  hold  thy  peace.  Thou 
wilt  swear  by  the  waving  poplar  trees  that  thou  dost 
love  me.  I  see  it  in  thine  eye ;  I  feel  it  in  thy  voice. 
Oh  how  the  little  darts  fall  upon  my  heart  like  the  sharp 
hailstones  in  an  August  day !  Say  not  a  word,  my  baron 
so  bluff  and  bold,  but  walk  on  faster,  lest  the  even  shades 
fall  upon  us  ere  we  reach  the  open  road.  Let  me  laugh, 
O  my  good  Shadrack,  let  me  laugh !  for,  though  thy 
hair  be  red,  yet  doubtless  it  ariseth  from  the  scorching 
of  the  furnace.  Thy  namesake,  you  remember,  went 
through  fire ;  you,  I  suppose,  would  go  through  fire  and 
water  for  your  ladylove  ?" 

"  You  have  said  for  me,  Miss  Myrtle,  much  that  I 
could  not  have  said,"  replied  the  slightly-crestfallen 
Shadrack.  "  I  never  could  have  told  you  that  I  loved 
you,  but  'tis  true  all  the  same.  I  am  only  a  plain  yeo- 
man, or  that's  all  I  shall  be,  but  I  speak  truth  when  I 


A  MERRY  LEGEND. 

say  you  tell  the  truth.  It  was  bold  of  me  to  look  up 
to  a  parson's  daughter — to  one  who  is  the  queenliest  of 
all  maidens  ;  but  I  have  not  sinned." 

"  There's  no  harm  done,  friend  Shadrack,"  she  replied, 
more  seriously — "  no  harm  done ;  and  if  I  thought  the 
same  of  you,  no  doubt  we  should  agree.  However,  you 
are  kind  to  think  of  me  as  you  do — too  kind,  I  fear. 
Only  don't  speak  of  such  things  again.  Now,  this  is 
my  way,"  pointing  down  the  road  which  they  had  now 
reached,  "  and  that  is  yours ;  here  we  part,  and  there's 
no  harm  done." 

"  Let  me  walk  with  you  a  little  way,"  said  Shad- 
rack. 

"  No,  not  a  step.     You  have  said  enough  already." 

"  I  haven't  said  anything — at  least,  not  all." 

"  I  know  all  the  rest ;  so  good-bye ;"  and  she  tripped 
lightly  away. 

Shadrack  stood  watching  her  as  she  went  up  the  road, 
so  pretty,  so  light-hearted.  He  sighed  and  shook  his 
head.  "  It's  strange,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  but  still  I 
love  her.  I'll  have  her  yet.  She's  young  and  giddy, 
but  never  mind.  There !  she's  gone.  There's  no  one 
else  like  her;"  and  he  turned  round  and  went  home. 

A  few  nights  later  was  Midsummer  Eve,  when  the 
country-people  light  bonfires  and  maidens  watch  in  the 
church  porch  for  their  lovers.  How  the  latter  managed 
when,  say,  half  a  dozen  sought  the  sombre  portal  for  the 
same  purpose,  we  are  not  told ;  but  there  is  no  doubt 
the  believing  damsel  was  oftentimes  rewarded,  for  did 
not  the  young  men  know  the  custom,  and  did  not  they 
too  watch  and  wait  ? 

It  would   have   been   unnatural  for   Betsey  to  have 


3/2  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

missed  so  good  an  opportunity  of  confirming  her  hopes 
and  dreams.  The  fact  that  Shadrack  was  an  orphan 
seemed  to  run  counter  to  all  her  charms.  Nothing 
worked  exactly  as  it  should,  and  she  began  to  doubt 
whether  it  was  he  whom  she  saw  on  Christmas  Eve 
long  ago.  However,  her  love  was  strong  as  ever,  and 
she  still  clung  to  the  belief  that  destiny  had  decreed  in 
her  favor.  If  he  would  only  speak !  That  was  the 
trouble.  He  was  in  love,  as  any  novice  might  see. 
Everything  he  did — his  absent  manner,  his  dreamy 
words,  his  evident  desire  for  sympathy — showed  that  he 
was  deeply  wounded.  One  might  almost  fancy  one  saw 
the  blood  trickling  from  his  broken  heart,  each  drop  suf- 
ficient to  satisfy  the  most  ardent  maidenly  longing.  But 
why  did  he  not  tell  his  love  ?  Why  should  he  seek  to 
hide  it  ?  Shadrack  was  an  orphan :  that  was  all. 

So  an  hour  before  midnight  Betsey  started  off  for  the 
old  church.  The  people  of  the  farm  were  feasting  in 
the  kitchen  or  around  the  huge  bonfire,  and  therefore 
she  got  away  unnoticed.  Up  the  hill  she  hasted,  almost 
breathless  with  excitement,  anxious  to  read  fate  and 
afraid  lest  fate  should  speak.  The  moon  was  just  rising 
as  she  entered  the  churchyard.  There  was  no  sign  of 
living  creature,  not  even  an  owl  or  a  night-hawk.  The 
graves  lay,  as  graves  generally  do,  silent  and  suggestive 
— so  suggestive  that  Betsey's  nerves  began  to  give  way 
when  she  looked  at  them.  But  it  was  near  twelve 
o'clock,  and  now  was  the  golden  opportunity.  Into  the 
deep  porch  she  went.  It  felt  chilly  and  dismal.  She 
shivered  with  fear,  and  did  not  help  herself  much  when 
she  thought  that  instead  of  a  lover  she  might  catch  her 
death.  Still,  she  was  a  brave  girl,  and  withal  a  good 


A   MERRY  LEGEND.  373 

girl ;  so  she  repeated  the  Creed  and  said  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  and  then  she  knew  no  evil  could  possibly  be- 
fall her. 

"  Strange,  though,"  said  she  to  herself,  "  that  nearly 
every  time  I  have  failed.  Last  year  I  took  a  clean  gar- 
ment and  wetted  it  and  turned  it  wrong  side  out  and  set 
it  on  the  back  of  a  chair  to  dry,  but  no  sweetheart  came 
to  turn  it  right  again.  I  lay  on  my  back  and  stopped 
my  ears  with  laurel-leaves,  but  he  did  not  appear.  I  put 
beneath  my  pillow  a  coal  which  I  found  under  a  plantain- 
root,  but  that  night  I  dreamt  nothing.  I  have  gathered 
a  rose,  walking  backward  to  the  bush,  and  I  have  kept 
it  in  clean  paper  till  Christmas  without  looking  at  it,  and 
then  I  stuck  it  in  my  bosom,  but  no  lover  came  to  pluck 
it  out.  I  don't  know  what  I  haven't  tried.  Are  all  or- 
phans like  Shadrack  ?"  and  then  the  great  bell  in  the 
tower  struck  the  first  note  of  midnight. 

Betsey  trembled  and  muttered  the  words  of  incanta- 
tion. The  last  note  died  away,  and  she  saw  nothing. 
Then  she  heard  a  footstep  on  the  gravel- walk,  and  if  she 
could  she  would  have  screamed.  The  footsteps  came 
nearer  the  porch,  but  she  stood  motionless,  unable  to 
move  hand  or  foot,  unable  even  to  think.  Another  in- 
stant, and  Shadrack  stood  before  he. 

"  Oh,  Betsey,  Betsey !"  cried  he.  "  Quick !  come  with 
me."  She  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  "  I  saw  you  come 
in.  Don't  be  frightened  ;  it  is  I  myself,  in  my  own  flesh 
and  blood.  Come,  come !"  Her  face  was  ashy  pale ; 
the  moonlight  was  beginning  to  fall  upon  her.  Shad- 
rack  took  her  by  the  arm :  "  Oh,  Betsey,  do  wake  up ! 
A  dreadful  thing  has  happened.  Myrtle  is  dead — lying 
out  here  in  the  churchyard  dead  and  stiff.  I  came  up 


374  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

just  now,  and  I  saw  the  white  form  on  the  ground.  Oh, 
come  and  see  what  can  be  done."  He  half  dragged  her 
out  of  the  porch. 

"  Shaddy,"  Betsey  gasped,  "  I  am  bewildered." 

"  But  she  is  dead,"  said  Shadrack,  still  pulling  Betsey 
along. 

"  Who  ?"  asked  she. 

"  Myrtle.  See  !  here  she  lies."  He  pointed  to  a  figure 
lying  on  the  green  sward.  "  It  is  Myrtle,"  said  he,  with 
hushed  breath.  "  I  have  lifted  her  hand  that  lies  across 
her  face  ;  she  is  dead.  What  can  we  do  ?" 

"  Stay  by  her,  Shaddy,  while  I  run  to  the  vicarage  for 
help." 

Betsey  was  all  right  now;  the  evident  anguish  of 
Shadrack  brought  back  her  senses.  She  was  off  at 
once. 

"Poor  Myrtle!"  said  Shadrack.  "My  Myrtle,  now 
thou  canst  never  be  mine.  Gone  for  ever !"  He  stood 
there  in  the  moonlight  looking  down  upon  the  lifeless 
body.  This  was  the  end  of  the  dreaming,  and  the  glory 
was  not  the  early  bridal  and  the  meridian  splendor,  but 
midnight  sorrow  and  a  grave. 

In  a  few  minutes  Betsey  returned  with  a  number  of 
people — among  them,  the  clergyman.  He  stooped  down 
and  lifted  his  daughter's  hand,  and  cried,  "  My  Myrtle ! 
My  love !"  but  she  was  dead.  They  took  her  up  and 
carried  her  to  the  house.  "  It  was  her  heart,"  one 
whispered  to  another ;  "  her  heart  troubled  her."  Shad- 
rack  told  them  how  he  had  found  her.  What  took  her 
to  the  churchyard  at  that  time  of  night  ?  It  could  not 
be  that  she  might  keep  the  village  custom  ?  No  one 
could  tell ;  no  one  ever  would  know.  Only  when  Shad- 


A  MERRY  LEGEND.  375, 

rack  and  Betsey  were  about  to  leave  for  home  the  cler- 
gyman took  him  by  the  hand  and  said, 

"  She  told  me  all  about  it,  and  she  laughed,  but  she 
wasn't  angry.  She  didn't  know  you ;  but  when  I  told 
her  about  you,  she  said  she  was  sorry.  That  was  all. 
Good-night;"  and  he  went  back  to  weep  by  Myrtle's 
bed. 

Betsey  was  not  so  smitten  with  grief  as  to  forget  that 
Shadrack  had  appeared  to  her  at  the  midnight  hour. 
She  was  sorry  that  a  catastrophe  had  happened,  but  she 
was  satisfied  that  the  youth  by  her  side  was  now  her 
own.  Not  that  she  suspected  for  one  moment  Shad- 
rack's  feeling  toward  Myrtle.  He  had  spoken  of  love  in 
the  abstract,  and  never  in  the  concrete.  It  was  there- 
fore with  honest  regret  that  she  said  as  they  were  walk- 
ing home, 

"  It's  a  sad  thing,  Shaddy." 

"  Yes,  it's  dreadful,"  replied  he,  mournfully. 

"  Everybody  who  loved  her  will  be  broken  up,"  she 
observed,  gravely. 

"  Broken  up  completely,  Betsey." 

"  Such  a  beautiful  girl !  Did  you  see  how  her  long 
hair  lay  upon  the  grass?" 

"Yes." 

The  two  walked  on  for  some  time  without  speaking. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Shaddy,"  said  she,  at  length. 

"  You  are  a  kind-hearted  body." 

They  were  home  now. 

Ere  long  Myrtle  was  laid  in  the  ground,  and  Shad- 
rack  more  than  ever  realized  that  his  dream  was  gone. 
Every  Sunday  morning  while  the  summer  lasted  he  lay 
a  garland  of  flowers  upon  her  grave.  Betsey  helped  to 


376     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

gather  and  arrange  this  weekly  offering.  But  time 
works  both  changes  and  cures.  Shadrack  did  not  for- 
get Myrtle,  but  he  was  young  and  could  not  grieve  for 
ever.  People  wondered  he  was  sad  so  long.  Some  said 
the  sudden  fright  had  unsettled  his  mind.  Old  Sol- 
omon said  he  would  be  all  right  when  the  partridge- 
shooting  came  in,  and  Aunt  Susannah  believed  that 
when  the  blenheims  ripened  he  would  be  the  same 
cheery  soul  as  of  yore.  Betsey  had  almost  lost  heart. 
She  had  no  confidante,  and  she  was  obliged  to  hide  her 
thoughts,  but  more  than  ever  did  she  wish  something 
would  come  true. 

The  day  came  at  last. 

"  Betsey,"  said  Shadrack  one  October  evening  as  they 
were  looking  for  nuts — "  Betsey,  do  you  remember  the 
dream  I  had  long  ago  of  the  wedding — of  my  wedding, 
you  know?" 

"  I  remember  it  very  well." 

"  It  can  never  be  now,  Betsey." 

"No?    Why  not?" 

"  I  haven't  any  one  to  love." 

"  No  one  to  love !"  exclaimed  Betsey,  astonished. 
"  No  one  to  love !  Where  am  //" 

"  Well,  I  might  love  you,  but  I  never  thought  of  you. 
Forgive  me,  Betsey,  but  I  never  thought  of  you." 

"  I  don't  wish  you  to  think  of  me,"  said  she,  in  a  pen- 
itent tone. 

"  No,  Betsey,  I  won't — at  least,  not  unless  you  wish 
me  to." 

"  I  don't  wish  you  to,  Shaddy :  I  am  not  good  enough 
for  you."  She  stood  in  the  golden  autumn  sunset,  her 
blue  eyes  deep  with  shaded  emotion,  her  cheeks  brightly 


A   MERRY  LEGEND.  377 

red.  "  I  am  a  nobody — only  an  orphan ;  not  one  for  you 
to  love" 

"  I  can't  help  loving  you  a  little,"  he  replied.  "  You 
are  so  kind  to  me,  and  you  do  look  beautiful  in  the  sun- 
light— almost  like  the  maiden  in  my  dream." 

Betsey  smiled. 

"  You  must  not  look  at  me,  Shadrack,"  she  said,  "  but 
seek  to  find  the  dream  come  true  in  a  better  girl  than  I. 
So  think  not  of  me." 

"  I  won't ;  only,  the  more  I  look  at  you,  Betsey,  the 
more  I  see  you  as  the  bride  of  my  dream.  Your  eyes, 
your  figure  and  your  hair  are  hers.  And  now  the  light 
falls  on  you —  Nay,  stand  still  and  let  me  see  you  in 
the  glory.  Yes,  Betsey,  you  are  the  very  one ;  only,  it 
is  in  the  evening  and  not  in  the  morning  light  that  I  be- 
hold you." 

"  You  are  fancying  this ;"  and  she  stooped  to  pluck  a 
blue  flower.  "  Please  don't  try  to  love  me.  If  there's 
nobody  else  in  the  world,  don't  think  of  me.  I  am  only 
Betsey." 

"  But  you  are  a  queen,"  said  he,  enthusiastically. 

'*  No  ;  I  am  an  orphan." 

"  So  am  I.  And  I  say  you  are  a  queen.  Who  can 
be  more  beautiful  than  you  at  this  moment  ?  Who  can 
stand  beside  you  now  ?" 

"  Let  us  go,"  said  Betsey.  "  Aunt  Susannah  will  won- 
der that  we  are  not  in  before  this." 

But  Shadrack  was  being  driven  along  in  a  current  that 
grew  swifter  every  moment. 

"  No,  Betsey,"  he  said;  "you  say  I  must  not  think  of 
you,  but  now  I  know  I  cannot  help  it.  You  say  I  must 
not  love  you,  but  for  me  not  to  love  you  is  impossible. 


3/8  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

I  must  love  you,  I  will  love  you.  Do  not  turn  aside.  I 
am  Shadrack ;  don't  you  think  you  could  love  me  ?" 

"  I  might  try,  but  who  would  love  a  youth  so  tall  as 
you  ?" 

"  Never  mind ;  I  only  want  you  to  love  me." 

"  I  do,  Shaddy.     I  have  loved  you  for  long." 

And  Shadrack  kissed  her. 

Betsey's  triumph-day  had  come.  The  sun  went  down ; 
and  when  she  stood  before  Aunt  Susannah  in  the  kitch- 
en, demure  and  silent,  that  worthy  asked, 

"  What  kept  you  so  long  in  the  orchard  ?  Dreaming, 
I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Susie,  dreaming,"  she  replied. 

That  night  Betsey  slept  in  peace. 

In  the  visions  of  the  darkness  Shadrack  saw  Myrtle 
standing  beside  him,  and  he  heard  her  say,  "  Betsey  is 
the  bride ;"  then,  smiling,  she  vanished  from  his  sight. 

"  I  knew  it,"  said  Aunt  Susannah  to  her  loving  spouse 
when  the  news  came  out ;  "  I  knew  it.  That  minx  was 
after  Shadrack  Abednego  from  the  first."  • 

"  She's  a  likely  wench,"  observed  Solomon. 

"  I  have  nothing  against  her,  only  that  she's  going  to 
have  Shadrack,"  said  Susannah. 

"  Somebody  must  have  had  him,  and  why  not  Bet- 
sey ?" 

"That's  so,"  she  replied,  thoughtfully. 

"  That's  so,"  he  returned. 

And  it  was  so. 

From  the  triumph-day  to  the  wedding-day  was  not 
long ;  and  when  the  bells  rang  out  the  bridal  peal,  the 
whole  parish  said  Shadrack  had  the  best  of  girls  and 
Betsey  had  the  best  of  men.  Everybody,  for  a  wonder, 


A   MERRY  LEGEND. 

was  pleased,  if  not  satisfied.  The  envy  common  at 
such  times  was  softened  down,  and  no  word  or  look 
reached  the  happy  couple  but  of  congratulation  and 
good  wishes.  This  was  as  it  should  be.  At  the  same 
time,  it  may  be  doubted  if  a  groom  or  a  bride  is  not  all 
the  happier  for  knowing  that  he  or  she  is  looked  upon 
with  some  little  envy.  Who  wants  a  husband  no  other 
woman  would  have  ?  Who  wants  a  wife  no  other  man 
would  seek  ?  There  was  not  a  maiden  present  who  did 
not  wish  she  was  Betsey ;  there  was  not  a  man  who  did 
not  wish  he  was  Shadrack.  However,  it  was  a  good-na- 
tured feeling,  and  soon  passed  away — a  sort  of  soft  April 
mist  that  disappeared  in  the  sunshine. 

One  scene  more,  and  we  must  leave  our  wedded  or- 
phans. In  the  dull  November,  when  the  leaves  had  all 
fallen,  and  bleak  winds  and  chilly  rains  swept  across  the 
fields  and  made  home  more  attractive  than  ever,  a  happy 
company  were  assembled  in  the  old  farmhouse.  Solo- 
mon and  Susannah,  Shadrack  and  Betsey,  and  a  few  of 
the  neighbors  were  sitting  around  the  great  open  fire- 
place in  the  light  of  the  blazing  logs.  They  were 
laughing  and  joking  as  is  the  manner  of  free-hearted 
country-folk.  Village  gossip  formed  the  staple  of  con- 
versation. When  it  lagged,  some  one  called  out  to  Bet- 
sey for  a  ghost-story.  Strange  how  people  love  such 
stories,  and  stranger  still  that  civilization  cannot  destroy 
the  fascination ! 

"  No,"  said  Betsey ;  "  I  cannot  tell  one  to-day.  Mine 
are  all  old.  Perhaps  Shaddy  will." 

"  Now,  Shad !"  cried  the  company ;  and  after  a  min- 
ute's thought  he  began. 

"  My  story  is  true ;  mine  own  eyes  saw  that  which  I 


380  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

shall  tell.  You  remember  the  parson's  daughter,  Miss 
Myrtle  Muriel,  the  one  I  found  in  the  churchyard  on 
Midsummer  Eve  ?  Well,  early  in  the  morning  of  my 
wedding-day,  when  I  was  running  over  in  my  mind  the 
days  gone  by  and  the  days  to  come,  suddenly  I  saw  be- 
fore me  none  other  than  the  same  Myrtle.  She  was 
robed  in  white  and  her  hair  was  in  long  tresses.  I  was 
not  frightened — scarcely  startled — for  I  was  thinking  of 
her  at  that  moment.  She  spoke  to  me  and  said,  '  The 
bridal-day,  good  sir !  I  bless  you  and  your  bride.'  I 
could  not  speak ;  I  simply  bowed.  '  Love  shall  crown 
your  life,'  she  went  on — '  love  shall  crown  your  life.' 
Still  I  looked,  and  I  saw  her  fade  away,  and,  though  it 
was  a  spirit,  yet  was  I  glad.  We  stood  before  the  altar 
— Betsey  and  I — and  as  the  parson  read  the  words  that 
made  us  one  for  ever  I  saw  beyond  him  on  the  higher 
step  the  figure  of  poor  Myrtle.  The  sunbeams  fell  upon 
her  and  bathed  her  in  more  than  earthly  glory.  She 
looked  upon  me  with  her  soft,  sweet  eyes  and  seemed 
to  breathe  a  benediction  upon  us.  Oh,  I  saw  her  so 
plainly !  I  fancied  once  she  spoke,  but  what  she  said  I 
could  not  tell.  Then,  when  all  was  done,  I  saw  a  thin 
white  mist  before  the  altar ;  the  sun  shone  brighter,  and 
it  had  gone.  That  was  all,  and  it  is  true." 

"  What  did  it  mean  ?"  asked  Aunt  Susannah. 

"Yes,  Shaddy  dear,"  put  in  Betsey;  "what  did  it 
mean  ?" 

"  Nothing  more  than  this  that  you  can  understand — a 
blessing  from  the  dead,  a  prophecy  that  love  shall  in- 
deed crown  our  life." 

"  And  so  it  shall,  dear  Shadrack,"  cried  the  devoted 
Betsey. 


A   MERRY  LEGEND.  381 

Shadrack  kissed  his  bride,  and  the  company  pledged 
their  health  in  sparkling  ale. 

"  No  longer  an  orphan,  Shaddy,"  whispered  Betsey. 

"  No ;  a  good  wife  is  a  second  mother,"  replied  Shad- 
rack. 

The  rain  fell  fast,  the  wind  blew  fierce,  the  fire  blazed 
brighter  than  ever;  and  then,  with  loved  ones  beside 
them,  Shadrack  and  Betsey  sat  hand  in  hand  looking 
into  the  leaping  flames  and  beyond  them  down  the 
years — the  years  that  should  be  to  them  as  a  vineyard 
of  ripened  grapes,  as  a  garden  of  sweet  roses. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

ILasrt 


"  Than  orange  and  myrtle  more  fragrant  to  me 
Is  the  sweet-brier  rose  and  the  hawthorn  tree 
In  the  land  of  my  nativity." 

THEY  who  would  see  Nature  in  her  prettiest  and  gen- 
tlest moods  must  go  to  England.  There,  in  a  climate  in 
which  extremes  of  heat  and  cold  are  practically  un- 
known, she  displays  her  charms  and  unfolds  her  graces 
in  a  rich  and  unique  manner.  Association  also  increases 
the  beauty  of  the  picture,  and  history  becomes  attractive 
and  delightful.  You  look  with  pleasure  upon  wooded 
hills,  red-brown  wheat-fields,  green  meadows,  sparkling 
streamlets,  lawns  soft  and  velvety  as  an  Oriental  carpet, 
fruit-laden  orchards  and  innumerable  flower-gardens  ; 
you  also  look  with  no  less  pleasure  upon  churches, 
cathedrals  and  abbeys  gray  and  sacred  with  age,  upon 
castles  and  towers  set  in  the  cloudland  of  romance  and 
chivalry,  and  upon  old  manor-houses  with  their  twisted 
chimneys  and  timbered  gables  and  legends  of  men  and 
women  who  had  their  day  long,  long  ago  and  now  dwell 
amidst  the  mists  and  the  shadows. 

What  more  delightful  place  is  there  than  Hampton 
Court  Palace,  the  noble  foundation  of  Cardinal  Wolsey 
and  the  home  for  many  generations  of  the  sovereigns 
of  England  ?  Not  only  are  the  grounds  exquisitely  and 

382 


LAST  GLIMPSES.  383 

beautifully  laid  out  and  furnished  and  the  house  grand 
with  long  galleries  and  spacious  chambers  on  the  walls 
of  which  art  displays  its  highest — and  perhaps  its  lowest 
— powers,  but  everything  reminds  one  of  the  days  of 
yore.  In  the  garden,  amid  the  same  yew  and  holly  trees 
which  now  grow  there,  Henry  VIII.  strolled  with  Anne 
Boleyn  and  other  of  his  lady-loves.  Queen  Elizabeth 
traversed  the  same  walks,  played  upon  the  same  green 
lawn  and  listened. to  the  songs  of  gay  singers  under  the 
same  elms  of  royal  splendor.  In  the  long  bower  Mary 
of  England  held  converse  with  her  ladies  or  with  her 
own  sad  spirit.  It  requires  no  effort,  indeed,  to  see 
again  the  men  whose  memories  haunt  the  place,  and 
dull  must  he  be  who  cannot  catch  a  glimpse  of  Wolsey's 
red  robe  and  of  Henry's  stout  figure  as  they  move 
along  the  garden-paths  or  through  the  ancient  gate- 
ways. 

Inside,  the  same  wondrous  past  lives  again.  There  is 
the  chamber  of  William  III.  with  its  paintings  in  which 
masses  of  nudity  are  set  forth  in  delicate  figuring  and 
soft  coloring.  There  are  also  the  beautiful  and  frail 
women  of  the  court  of  Charles  II.,  but  not  one  of  them 
is  as  attractive  as  Miss  Pitt  among  the  "  Hampton  Court 
Beauties."  She  looks  pure,  sweet  and  lovely,  reminding 
one  of  the  old  lines : 

"  Her  cheeks  like  ripened  lilies  steeped  in  wine, 
Or  fair  pomegranate-kernels  washed  in  milk, 
Or  snow-white  threads  in  nets  of  crimson  silk, 
Or  gorgeous  clouds  upon  the  sun's  decline." 

The  old  state  bedsteads,  the  clocks,  weather-glasses  and 
mirrors,  the  carvings  and  the  pictures  are  replete  with 
interest,  but  beyond  them  think  of  the  regal  life,  the 

25 


384  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

court  intrigues  and  plans,  the  galaxy  of  learning,  wit 
and  beauty,  with  which  these  walls  were  once  familiar — 
of  great  banquets  in  the  noble  tapestried  hall,  and  of 
princes,  statesmen  and  bishops  who  walked  hither  and 
thither  in  the  corridors  and  the  rooms.  Two  centuries 
of  England's  history  are  there,  but,  alas  !  vanity  of  van- 
ities, Death  casts  the  trail  of  his  black  robe  over  all. 

A  day  at  Hampton  Court  will  unfold  more  than  any- 
thing else  the  delightful  and  mysterious  attractiveness 
of  England;  the  beauty  of  nature  and  the  charm  of 
history  unite  in  a  picture  the  memory  of  which  will 
cling  for  life.  Among  the  legends  is  that  of  the  Haunt- 
ed Gallery.  This  is  now  used  by  the  repairers  of  the 
arras,  but  it  was  not  long  since  said  to  be  frequented 
by  Catherine  Howard.  That  unfortunate  queen  early  one 
morning  escaped  from  the  chamber  in  which  she  was 
confined  before  being  sent  to  the  Tower,  and  ran  along 
this  gallery  to  seek  the  king,  who  had  just  entered  the 
chapel  leading  out  of  it.  At  the  door  of  the  chapel  she 
was  seized  by  the  guards  and  carried  back,  her  ruthless 
husband,  notwithstanding  her  piercing  screams,  which 
were  heard  almost  all  over  the  palace,  continuing  his  de- 
votions unmoved.  The  poor  woman  perished  at  the 
Tower,  but  many  times  since  then,  it  is  said,  a  female 
figure  draped  in  white  has  been  seen  in  this  gallery  com- 
ing toward  the  door  of  the  royal  pew,  and  as  she 
reaches  it  has  been  observed  to  hurry  back  with  dis- 
ordered garments  and  a  ghastly  look  of  despair,  uttering 
at  the  same  time  the  most  unearthly  shrieks  till  she 
passes  through  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  gallery. 

The  character  of  Henry  VIII.  does  not  improve  upon 
acquaintance.  He  may  have  been  a  great  statesman  and 


LAST  GLIMPSES.  385 

an  ardent  lover,  but  he  made  a  bad  husband.  Possibly 
it  would  have  been  for  his  good  had  he  gone  through 
the  processes  practised  in  his  day  to  correct  unfaithful 
and  cruel  spouses.  One  of  these  customs  still  survives 
in  some  parts  of  the  country — in  Denbighshire,  for  in- 
stance. Once  a  year  the  villagers  meet  and  bring  before 
them  any  who  have  made  themselves  notorious  as 
drunkards,  slanderers  or  wife-beaters.  If  the  offender  is 
found  guilty,  his  right  arm  is  fastened  up  to  the  bough 
of  a  tree,  and  gallons  of  cold  water  are  poured  down 
his  sleeves  amidst  the  jeers  and  the  merriment  of  the 
crowd.  That,  however,  would  have  been  too  gentle  for 
the  heartless  lord  of  Anne  Boleyn  and  Catherine  How- 
ard. Their  memory  also  clings  with  his  to  Hampton 
Court  Palace. 

A  like  unscrupulous  monster  was  Dudley,  earl  of 
Leicester.  I  mention  him  because  the  visitor  to  the 
Heart  of  Merrie  England  will  undoubtedly  go  to  Ken- 
ilworth.  The  story  of  poor  Amy  Robsart  is  known  to 
all,  nor  is  there  any  doubt  that  she  fell  a  victim  to  am- 
bition. The  tempting  bait  of  Elizabeth's  hand  was  too 
much  for  the  unprincipled  Leicester ;  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  consign  the  gentle  wife  to  the  cruelties  of  foul  men. 
In  a  secluded  house  near  Oxford,  Lady  Dudley  was  se- 
cretly imprisoned ;  there  she  was  ill-treated,  neglected 
and  subjected  to  attempts  at  poisoning.  Gentler  means 
failing,  rougher  were  employed.  One  night  the  deed 
was  done: 

"  And  ere  the  dawn  of  day  appeared 

In  Cumnor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear, 
Full  many  a  piercing  scream  was  heard, 
And  many  a  cry  of  mortal  fear." 


386     THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

The  wicked  earl  did  not  become  the  consort  of  the 
queen,  but  in  1575  he  gave  to  her  at  Kenilworth  an 
entertainment  of  rare  magnificence  and  luxury.  For 
seventeen  days  the  feast  was  kept  up;  the  cost  was 
enormous.  Besides  the  queen  and  the  ladies  of  her 
court,  there  were  thirty-one  barons  and  four  hundred 
servants.  Ten  oxen  were  slaughtered  every  morning, 
and  the  consumption  of  wine  is  said  to  have  been  six- 
teen hogsheads,  and  of  beer  forty  hogsheads,  daily. 
"The  clock-bell  rang  not  a  note  all  the  while  Her 
Highness  was  there ;  the  clock  stood  also  still  withal ; 
the  hands  of  both  the  tables  stood  firm  and  fast,  always 
pointing  at  two  o'clock  " — the  hour  of  banquet !  There 
were  gorgeous  spectacles,  masks,  farces,  feats  of  skill, 
allegories,  mythologies,  and  all  that  could  amuse  or 
while  away  the  time.  The  queen  was  received  by  a 
sibyl  "comely  clad  in  a  pair  of  white  silk,"  who  ad- 
dressed her  in  becoming  terms.  Amid  the  shouts  of 
the  attendants,  the  royal  company  having  reached  the 
tilt-yard,  was  heard  the  rough  speech  of  the  porter  de- 
manding the  cause  of  the  din  and  uproar,  "  but  upon 
seeing  the  queen,  as  if  he  had  been  instantly  stricken,  he 
falls  down  upon  his  knees,  humbly  begs  pardon  for  his 
ignorance,  yields  up  his  club  and  keys,  and  proclaims 
open  gates  and  free  passage  to  all."  Elizabeth  loved 
that  sort  of  thing,  though  she  doubtless  saw  through  it 
and  inwardly  laughed  at  the  extravagant  flattery.  One 
day  a  savage  dressed  in  moss  and  ivy  discoursed  before 
her  with  Echo  in  her  praise.  Another  day,  as  she  was 
returning  from  the  chase,  Triton,  rising  from  the  lake, 
prays  her,  in  the  name  of  Neptune,  to  deliver  the  en- 
chanted lady  pursued  by  ruthless  Sir  Bruce.  "  Presently 


LAST  GLIMPSES.  387 

the  lady  appears,  surrounded  by  nymphs,  followed  close 
by  Proteus,  who  is  borne  by  an  enormous  dolphin. 
Concealed  in  the  dolphin,  a  band  of  musicians,  with  a 
chorus  of  ocean-deities,  sing  the  praise  of  the  powerful, 
beautiful,  chaste  queen  of  England."  There  were 
rougher  sports.  Thirteen  bears  were  set  fighting  with 
dogs — a  pastime  much  enjoyed  by  the  queen  and  de- 
scribed by  an  eye-witness  as  "a  matter  of  goodly  re- 
lief." Wrestlers  from  Coventry,  Italian  tumblers  and 
rope-dancers  and  rural  clowns  played  their  part.  There 
was  a  mock-wedding  full  of  gross  humor,  in  which  the 
homely  joys  of  the  simple  country-folk  were  made  ri- 
diculous; yet  the  same  eye-witness  just  quoted  says, 
"  By  my  troth,  'twas  a  lively  pastime !  I  believe  it  would 
have  moved  a  man  to  a  right  merry  mood  though  it 
had  been  told  him  that  his  wife  lay  dying."  Did  Lei- 
cester in  the  midst  of  that  revelry,  when  his  hopes  were 
so  near  fruition,  give  a  thought  to  the  gentle  wife  of  his 
youth  ? 

Kenilworth  never  but  then  saw  such  magnificence. 
As  one  wanders  about  the  splendid  ruins,  halls  and 
yards  seem  to  live  again,  lords  and  ladies  gayly  dressed 
in  scarlet  satin,  sable  cloaks,  rich  laces,  costly  jewels, 
rare  embroidery,  rustling  silk  and  sparkling  gold  move 
hither  and  thither  with  that  free,  boundless  life  of  the 
old  times.  The  heavy  tramp  of  the  retainer  echoes 
along  the  stone  corridors ;  the  soft  songs  of  courtiers 
float  on  the  summer  air  and  suggest  the  romance  and 
the  voluptuous  sweetness  of  an  age  of  poetry  and  im- 
agination. It  is  but  for  a  moment,  and  as  a  dream  the 
picture  of  life  and  of  chivalry,  of  lordly  splendor  and 
of  vast  ambitions,  vanishes  away,  and  the  eye  rests  upon 


388  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

ivy-clad  walls,  grass-covered  courts,  crumbling  towers, 
vacant  chambers  and  broken  windows — the  sad  desola- 
tion of  departed  grandeur  and  the  painful  reminder  of 
the  transitoriness  of  human  life.  The  irony  is  sharpened 
when  the  merry  tattle  of  picnickers  breaks  in  upon  the 
silence ;  the  incongruity  of  sandwiches  and  ginger  ale  is 
apparent.  Better  to  see  the  great  pile  in  the  still  night 
when  the  clear  moonbeams  fall  upon  the  thick  ivy  and 
the  dark  walls,  stealing  here  and  there  through  loophole 
or  window,  and  the  owls  sweep  noiselessly  around  the 
turrets  or  over  the  swampy  bed  of  the  old  lake.  Then 
the  weird  mystery  of  bygone  days  steals  into  the  heart, 
legends  and  traditions  come  to  mind,  and  throughout 
life  memory  retains  not  only  a  wondrous  and  romantic 
scene,  but  also  the  thoughts  and  the  visions  created 
thereby. 

The  ruins  of  Kenilworth  are  on  a  high,  rocky  site 
commanding  a  wide  view  of  the  country  around.  From 
the  top  of  the  Strong  Tower  may  be  seen  one  of  those 
extensive  landscapes,  quiet  and  lovely,  full  of  picturesque 
beauty  and  rural  charm,  for  which  England  is  remark- 
able. Stand  there  in  an  early  summer  morning  when 
the  purple  haze  lies  low  on  the  horizon  and  the  warm 
light  brings  out  the  freshness  of  woods  and  fields,  the 
silvery  sheen  of  brook  and  river,  and  the  spires  and 
towers  of  village  churches,  and  Nature  will  give  the 
soul  a  satisfaction  that  shall  be  as  full  as  it  is  sweet  and 
as  real  as  it  is  undying. 

Wandering  through  the  country  districts  with  which 
this  book  has  had  to  do,  one  speedily  discovers  the  dar- 
ling love  of  the  English  people — viz.,  the  garden. 
Everywhere  flowers  abound — in  the  windows,  around 


LAST  GLIMPSES.  389 

the  door,  among  the  orchard  trees  and  in  the  strips  and 
plots  of  ground  at  the  back  of  the  house,  by  the  side 
of  the  walk  leading  from  the  road  or  the  street  and 
along  the  edges  of  the  vegetable-patch.  Here  and  there 
are  old-fashioned  gardens  with  their  winding  walks, 
quaintly-shaped  flower-beds  and  curiously-cut  hedges 
and  box  trees.  There  are  sure  to  be  roses — roses  white 
and  red,  roses  ruby  and  cream — in  the  cottager's  garden 
tended  by  the  housewife,  and  in  the  squire's  by  the  la- 
dies of  the  family.  In  the  early  morn,  when  the  dew- 
wet  buds  are  scarcely  unfolded,  delicate  hands  prune 
and  tend  them,  pluck  off  dead  leaves,  cut  some  of  the 
choicest  flowers  to  adorn  the  breakfast-table  and  tie  up 
straying  branches.  No  wonder  the  frozen  Norwegians 
on  the  first  sight  of  roses  dared  not  touch  what  they 
conceived  were  trees  budding  with  fire;  the  brilliant 
splendor  of  the  bush  obtains  the  highest  admiration 
and  surprise.  The  poets  of  all  ages  have  sung  its 
royal  glories,  the  gem  of  earth  and  the  diadem  of 
flowers,  and  have  loved  to  crown  it  with  praise  and  to 
liken  beautiful  maidens  to  it ;  the  lines  of  Herrick  are 
peculiarly  true  of  English  girls  who  live  much  in  the 
open  air,  breathing  the  fragrance  of  the  morning  and 
delighting  in  such  pastimes  as  archery,  tennis,  hunting 
and  gardening: 

"  One  asked  me  where  the  roses  grow ; 

I  bade  him  not  go  seek, 
But  forthwith  bade  my  Julia  show 
A  bud  in  either  cheek." 

The  heavy  work  naturally  falls  to  the  gardener,  who  is, 
as  a  rule,  a  man  of  independent  and  pronounced  cha- 
racter. We  may  picture  him  as  a  sunburnt,  bright- 


390  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

eyed  elderly  individual,  brimful  of  opinions  on  all  sorts 
of  subjects,  experienced  in  the  management  of  trees, 
shrubs,  flowers  and  vegetables,  and  knowing  well  the 
idiosyncrasies  of  every  member  of  the  family.  He  has 
grown  up  on  the  place  since  boyhood,  and  loves  every 
nook  and  corner,  every  laurel,  bay  or  holly  bush,  as 
though  all  were  his  own.  Honesty  and  integrity  go  to 
show  that  his  full  beard'  is  not  the  indication  of  subtilty 
and  guile,  as  some  used  to  think.  The  schoolmen  said 
that  Adam  was  created  a  handsome  young  man  without 
a  beard ;  his  face  was  afterward  degraded  with  hair  like 
the  beasts'  for  his  disobedience;  Eve,  being  less  guilty, 
was  permitted  to  retain  her  smooth  face.  This  was 
highly  complimentary  to  woman,  and  shows  that  at 
times  the  monks  could  say  something  in  her  favor ;  but 
our  gardener  is  by  no  means  like  an  individual  under- 
going punishment.  He  is  talkative,  as  are  most  people 
in  the  country.  What  is  known  as  English  reserve  be- 
longs more  to  the  upper  than  to  the  lower  classes.  The 
latter  are  obstrusively  garrulous,  and  press  their  opinions 
and  their  counsel  upon  the  stranger  with  temerity,  and 
even  with  rudeness.  Only  ask  a  question,  and  you 
open  the  sluice  of  a  millpond.  The  gardener  will  tell 
you  all  about  his  work,  and  as  he  speaks  his  eyes  will 
sparkle  with  pride  and  delight.  He  knows  nothing 
about  the  busy,  stifling  city.  God  first  placed  man  in  a 
garden ;  England  is  the  garden  of  Europe,  and  the  finest 
garden  of  all  is  that  over  which  he  has  charge.  His 
love  for  nature  is  common  to  all  around  him. 

If  one  sought  to  sum  up  the  leading  characteristics 
of  the  English  country-people,  one  might  find  it  in  the 
legendary  lore  of  Robin  Hood.  That  mighty  hero  of 


LAST  GLIMPSES.  39! 

the  merry  greenwood  has  for  centuries  been  their  ideal 
and  their  favorite.  He  has  been  made  the  expression  of 
their  own  aspirations  and  prejudices.  The  higher  classes 
have  made  King  Arthur,  the  prince  of  honor,  chivalry 
and  gentleness,  their  pattern  and  illustration ;  the  lower 
cling  to  the  son  of  the  yeoman.  Robin,  we  are  told, 
robbed  only  the  rich ;  the  poor  he  befriended  and 
helped.  He  was  the  Socialist  of  his  day,  adjusting  dif- 
ferences, equalizing  wealth  and  carrying  out  that  dream 
of  the  centuries,  that  vision  of  perennial  freshness  and 
strength,  in  which  every  man  is  the  peer  of  his  brother 
and  all  have  enough  for  their  needs.  The  English  are 
not  revolutionists,  but  Robin  expressed  their  thought. 
Ever  and  anon  they  have  broken  out  into  sturdy  rebel- 
lion and  sought  to  free  themselves  from  social  bondage. 
Servitude  is  irksome ;  never  was  it  more  so  than  it  is 
to-day.  Like  true  men,  they  are  ready  to  do  their  duty 
in  that  state  of  life  in  which  it  has  pleased  God  to  place 
them,  but  also  like  true  men  they  seek  to  enter  into 
higher  states  of  life  which  God  has  as  truly  placed  before 
them.  They  do  not  understand  contentment  to  mean 
inaction,  subjection  or  retrogression.  Right  or  wrong, 
they  wait  for  the  arrow-shaft  that  shall  speed  through 
the  Sherwood  Forest  of  modern  civilization  and  force 
the  rich  to  help  the  poor  and  make  the  way  easy  for 
every  man  to  rise  who  will.  Even  as  Robin  loved  the 
freedom  of  the  woodlands,  so  do  they  love  to  cast  aside 
the  restraints  of  an  artificial  life  and  to  revel  in  the 
liberty  which  God  has  ordained  for  man. 

Another  characteristic  comes  out  in  Robin  Hood. 
He  is  displayed  in  the  ballads  as  a  religious  man :  he 
heard  three  masses  every  day  and  was  remarkable  for 


392  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

his  devotion  to  the  Blessed  Virgin ;  but,  notwithstanding 
this  manifest  piety,  he  fought  vigorously  against  the  cler- 
gy. He  would  beat  and  bind  every  bishop  or  abbot  that 
came  within  his  reach.  He  would  allure  a  church  digni- 
tary into  the  distant  parts  of  his  forest-home,  and  after 
robbing  him  tie  him  to  a  tree  and  make  him  sing  Mass 
for  the  good  of  Robin's  own  soul.  Some  friars  were 
made  to  kneel  down  and  pray  for  the  robbers,  and  were 
then  bound  on  their  horses,  with  their  heads  to  the  tail, 
and  sent  away.  This  curious  intermingling  of  reverence 
for  religion  and  of  irreverence  for  the  ministers  of  re- 
ligion still  largely  prevails.  The  people  who  are  most 
devout  in  the  discharge  of  their  spiritual  duties  are 
oftentimes  as  determined  in  their  opposition  to  the 
clergy.  There  are  exceptions,  but  they  arise  from  the 
clergyman  having  qualities  which  bring  him  closer  to 
the  people  than  is  ordinarily  the  case — a  gentle,  sympa- 
thizing spirit,  an  earnest  zeal  or  great  preaching-gifts. 
In  a  word,  the  English  people  dread  a  priesthood.  Their 
race  is  the  only  one  which  has  a  religion  without  one, 
nor  is  there  any  hope  that  the  effort  of  the  nineteenth 
century  to  provide  them  with  one  will  succeed.  The 
masses  are  touched  by  the  hand  of  a  John  Wycliffe  and 
a  John  Wesley,  by  the  preaching  of  Lollard,  Reformer 
and  Puritan.  When  such  as  they  speak,  then  the  loud 
response  follows,  and  in  the  village-folk  we  see  again  the 
bold  archer  who  loved  religion  and  hated  those  who 
called  themselves  its  priests. 

In  Robin  Hood's  devotion  to  woman  is  expressed  an- 
other English  ideal.  The  days  have  long  since  gone  by 
when  preachers  used  to  recommend  husbands  to  punish, 
and  even  to  chastise,  their  wives  that  they  might  be 


LAST  GLIMPSES.  393 

healed  of  their  sins  and  made  obedient.  Even  the 
custom  of  selling  a  wife  at  auction  has  passed  away. 
She  was  led  by  a  halter  to  the  market-place  and  set  up 
for  the  highest  bidder.  Such  sales  were  considered 
legal,  and  were  common  as  late  as  1797;  indeed,  in- 
stances much  later  have  been  cited.  Once  in  a  while 
the  newspapers  tell  of  brutes  who  err  against  their  wives 
and  for  whom  the  whipping-post  is  not  too  severe,  but 
the  masses  realize  that  Robin  was  right  and  that  woman 
was  made  to  be  loved  and  honored.  They  do  not  yet 
understand  women  receiving  honors  at  the  university 
and  managing  large  enterprises  with  ability  and  suc- 
cess, nor  do  they  like  to  think  of  female  physicians  or 
of  female  lawyers;  but  when  they  become  accustomed 
to  these  things,  they  will  take  them  as  matters  of  course. 
Any  way,  they  are  struggling  on  to  show  in  deeds  the 
thought  of  their  heart. 

The  people  love  athletic  sports  and  feats  of  skill,  and 
in  these  their  popular  hero  is  made  to  excel.  He  was  a 
mighty  wrestler  and  an  unequalled  bowman.  The  ruder 
sports  of  earlier  days  are  not  common,  but  every  town 
of  any  size  has  its  cricket  club  and  its  bowling-green. 
Every  one  is  interested  in  them,  and  the  best  player  at 
quoits,  the  fleetest  runner  and  the  ablest  rider  receive 
an  honor  like  unto  that  which  former  ages  yielded  to 
the  winner  in  the  tournament  and  to  the  victor  in  the 
fight.  The  universities  encourage  boat-racing  as  well 
as  scholarship,  and  the  Houses  of  Parliament  adjourn 
over  the  Derby  races. 

One  would  have  to  search  very  closely  to  find  any- 
thing  approaching  the  spirit  which  Addison  describes 
as  existing  between  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  and  his  de- 


394  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

pendants.  Landlords  and  tenants  are  still  friendly  with 
each  other,  but  the  commercial  rather  than  the  moral 
element  binds  them  together.  So  with  masters  and 
servants,  mistresses  and  maids.  The  old  pictures  of 
social  felicity  in  which  the  lord  of  the  house  had  an 
intimate  interest  in  every  member  of  his  family — from 
the  heir  himself  to  the  boy  who  waited  on  the  cook  or 
kept  the  birds  from  the  strawberry- plot  or  cherry  tree — 
and  received  in  return  a  loyalty  and  an  obedience  both 
personal  and  lifelong,  have  long  since  passed  away. 
There  are,  indeed,  some  who  still  believe  that  man  was 
made  to  plough  and  till  the  land,  and  that  they  who  can- 
not do  that  are  appointed  by  Providence  to  make  wag- 
ons, ploughs,  spades,  mattocks,  chairs  and  tables,  to  dig 
graves  and  grow  vegetables,  to  look  after  foxes,  ferrets 
and  pheasants,  to  rear  chickens,  canary-birds  and  chil- 
dren, and  to  tend  sheep  and  oxen,  pigs  and  hounds ; 
but  this  opinion  of  the  whole  duty  of  man  is  not  gen- 
eral. The  growth  of  a  plebeian  plutocracy  and  the 
spread  of  nineteenth-century  Socialism,  assisted  by  the 
press,  the  railway  and  the  telegraph,  have  effected  great 
and  lasting  changes.  In  the  outlying  districts  there  is 
still  a  warm  loyalty  on  the  part  of  the  villagers  to  the 
squire  whose  family  has  held  the  manor  from  time  im- 
memorial, but  his  sense  of  responsibility  and  of  duty 
toward  them  is  much  stronger  and  more  unselfish  than 
is  their  attachment  to  him.  He  will  lower  his  tenants' 
rents,  give  liberally  to  improvements,  put  himself  out  of 
the  way  to  further  their  interests,  without  increasing 
their  affection  or  their  devotion.  They  will  scarcely 
think  of  the  ties  that  bound  their  forefathers  to  his — 
of  the  days  when  his  ancestors  struggled  for  theirs  on 


LAST  GLIMPSES,  395 

the  field  of  battle  or  in  the  social  or  political  arena,  and 
theirs  served  his  by  following  to  the  war  or  tilling  the 
land.  Hodge  is  as  good  as  his  master,  or  is  fast  be- 
coming so.  He  reads  more  than  the  Bible  and  hears 
speak  more  men  than  the  parson.  Even  the  maid  in 
the  kitchen  resents  the  old  maternal  interest  which  her 
mistress  may  show  in  her.  She  does  so  much  work  for 
so  much  wages,  and  beyond  the  bare  contract  she  asks 
for  and  desires  no  more.  The  difference  between  her 
and  her  lady  is  not  so  much  of  blood,  nor  even  of  beau- 
ty or  scholarship,  but  of  money.  For  better  wages  or 
an  easier  place  she  will  leave  at  a  month's  notice.  The 
gentry  and  the  clergy  rebel  against  this  spirit ;  but  when 
the  humblest  child  of  the  soil  can  without  fear  or  favor 
leave  the  village  and  go  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  there 
by  industry  and  perseverance  to  make  a  new  home,  per- 
haps to  win  a  larger  estate  and  a  greater  fortune  than 
those  of  rural  magnates  in  the  old  land,  remonstrance 
goes  for  naught.  Whether  the  new  state  of  affairs  will 
be  better  than  the  old,  whether  people  will  be  happier 
when  the  present  age  has  done  its  work,  or  whether  in 
the  old  semi-feudalism  there  were  not  important  ele- 
ments of  social  economy  which  we  are  unwisely  los- 
ing sight  of,  are  questions  into  which  we  may  not 
enter. 

The  freedom  of  speech  is  one  of  the  illustrations  of 
the  irresistible  progress  of  the  times.  Theoretically, 
speech  has  been  free  in  England  for  ages.  If  a  man 
could  find  anybody  to  listen  to  him,  the  law  allowed 
him  to  say  what  he  chose,  so  long  as  he  abstained  from 
gross  blasphemy  or  from  treason.  But  in  the  country 
districts  practice  differed  from  the  theory ;  magistrates 


396  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

gave  a  wide  interpretation  to  the  terms  defining  for- 
bidden subjects.  If  a  man  spoke  in  favor  of  striking  the 
Athanasian  Creed  out  of  the  Prayer-Book,  it  was  blas- 
phemy ;  if  of  repealing  an  obnoxious  law  or  of  revising 
the  constitution,  it  was  treason.  In  1866,  at  the  village 
on  the  Stour  spoken  of  in  these  pages,  there  was  in  the 
employ  of  a  butcher  a  young  man  who,  thinking  he  had 
a  mission  to  his  townspeople  and  being  filled  with  Bir- 
mingham politics,  rolled  into  the  High  street  a  barrel 
and  from  its  upper  end  sought  to  express  his  views  to 
the  small  company  who  cared  to  hear  them.  What  he 
lacked  in  continuity  of  thought  he  made  up  in  vigor  of 
utterance.  Among  other  things,  he  was  troubled  about 
lay  rectors,  clerical  magistrates,  German  princes,  long 
hours  of  work,  expensive  funerals  and  the  limited  fran- 
chise. These  were  strange  and  startling  topics  in  a 
quiet,  sleepy  place  like  Shipston  and  among  a  people 
who  religiously  applied  to  everything  in  Church  and 
State  the  latter  part  of  the  Gloria  Patri.  They  did  not 
know  what  to  make  of  them,  but  they  listened  respect- 
fully. A  week  later,  when  the  rural  radical  again  posed 
upon  his  barrel-head,  he  was  taken  therefrom  by  the 
order  of  the  rector,  who  not  only  threatened  him  with 
severe  penalties  should  he  persist  in  making  "seditious" 
speeches,  but  also  insisted  upon  his  employer  forthwith 
discharging  him.  The  poor  fellow  soon  found  every 
face  set  against  him,  his  character  gone,  his  future  dark- 
ened, and  he  was  obliged  to  seek  refuge  in  the  great 
town  from  whence  he  obtained  his  ideas  of  men  and 
manners.  Everywhere  he  was  spoken  against.  The 
good  folks  who  measured  cloth  and  sold  sugar,  the 
tradespeople  and  the  gentry,  avowed  him  to  be  an  idle, 


LAST  GLIMPSES.  397 

dangerous  wretch,  and  even  the  old  men  who  weeded 
garden-walks  and  swept  the  streets,  and  the  old  women 
who  went  out  washing  and  took  snuff,  shook  their  heads 
and  said  he  would  bring  ruin  upon  himself.  This  was 
twenty  years  since.  In  the  mean  time,  the  great  agri- 
cultural strike  has  taken  place;  Joseph  Arch  went 
through  this  same  district  and  taught  the  farm-laborer 
that  it  was  no  sin  for  him  to  wish  his  week's  wages  in- 
creased from  ten  shillings  to  twenty,  and  to  look  forward 
to  the  day  when  his  class  should  have  a  vote  and  be 
represented  in  Parliament.  Agitation  became  the  order 
of  the  day.  Addresses  of  extreme  violence  are  made 
and  no  one  thinks  them  out  of  order,  and  what  is 
stranger  still  is  that  things  are  said  not  only  of  the 
government,  but  also  of  the  queen,  which  suggest 
rankest  disloyalty  and  not  so  long  since  would  have 
cost  a  man  his  head.  Speech  is  now  free,  and  neither 
clergyman  nor  magistrate  seeks  to  suppress  it.  I  would 
not  imply  that  dissatisfaction  has  increased.  The  people 
are  firmly  attached  to  the  Crown,  and  not  only  are  the 
probabilities  of  the  kingdom  changing  into  a  republic 
becoming  less,  but  the  world  looks  upon  the  anomaly 
of  a  nation  both  democratical  and  monarchical  and  in- 
tensely loyal  to  both  ideals. 

The  greatest  of  all  questions  in  England  is  that  of 
population.  This  is  more  apparent  in  the  towns  than  in 
the  country.  Take  Liverpool,  for  instance.  An  hour's 
walk  through  the  streets  of  that  great  shipping-port,  so 
massive  in  its  buildings  and  so  cosmopolitan  in  its  appear- 
ance, will  bring  to  sight  more  pauperism  and  vice  than 
will  be  revealed  by  years  of  residence  in  an  American 
city.  The  number  of  barefooted  children  and  of  ragged 


398  THE  HEART  OF  M ERR  IE  ENGLAND. 

men  and  women  is  appalling.  How  they  keep  body 
and  soul  together  is  a  mystery.  Boys  sell  fairly-printed 
copies  of  standard  works,  such  as  Pickwick  Papers,  for  a 
penny  each ;  girls  hawk  matches  at  a  farthing  a  box. 
Everywhere  the  eye  beholds  objects  of  woe,  hungry- 
wretches,  dissolute  rogues  and  abandoned  beggars. 
Such  poor  souls,  the  refuse  and  residuum  of  high  civil- 
ization, are  not  desirable  as  emigrants — they  take  vice 
with  them  wherever  they  go — nor  does  emigration  de- 
crease population.  Nature  is  a  curious  dame  and  coun- 
teracts with  renewed  energy  the  efforts  to  reduce  the 
numbers.  It  is  a  sad  thought  that  these  worthless 
classes  grow  far  more  rapidly  than  do  they  who  make 
up  the  brain  and  the  muscle  of  a  nation.  What  can  be 
done  with  them?  Whatever  vice  may  be  elsewhere, 
here  it  is  gross,  heavy  and  bold.  Drunkenness  abounds, 
depravity  is  rampant.  To  disguise  the  fact  is  impossible. 
The  only  hope  seems  to  be  in  bringing  the  power  of  the 
gospel  to  bear  upon  the  masses.  That  may  at  least 
make  the  people  fit  to  bear  the  burden  of  life  and  to  do 
their  duty  in  distant  lands  where  there  is  room  for  them 
to  live  and  to  work.  Much  is  being  done  in  this  di- 
rection ;  more  remains  to  be  done. 

The  last  paragraph  is  as  a  cloud  upon  the  fair,  sunny 
picture  of  England  which  we  have  sought  to  present, 
but  from  Hampton  Court  Palace  to  the  slums  of  Lon- 
don and  from  Kenilworth  to  the  smoke  of  Birmingham 
the  distance  is  not  great.  That  the  cloud  will  pass 
away  none  can  doubt.  It  does  not  even  now  retain  the 
attention  so  long  as  do  the  brilliant  features  of  English 
life.  There  are  glories  far  greater  than  the  shadows. 

I  have  already  spoken  of  the  perennial  youth  of  Eng- 


LAST  GLIMPSES.  399 

land.  Some  things  grow  slowly  and  live  long;  they 
are  young  when  their  neighbors  are  old.  The  primrose 
and  the  oak  both  have  their  day ;  generations  of  the 
former  pass  away  before  the  acorn  has  developed  into  a 
sapling.  Age  is  a  relative  thing,  and  the  fly  whose  life 
lasts  ten  minutes  becomes  old  in  the  time  which  it  takes 
the  eagle  to  wing  its  way  from  one  mountain-top  to 
another  or  the  tortoise  to  drag  itself  a  few  yards  along 
the  shore-sand.  There  are  as  yet  no  signs  of  declining 
power  or  of  decaying  vitality  in  England.  Institutions 
are  created,  reformed,  abolished,  as  the  times  demand. 
Her  old  men  bear  the  weight  of  empire  with  a  vigor 
and  a  strength  unequalled ;  her  young  men  are  as  hope- 
ful as  though  millenniums  were  yet  in  store  for  their 
country.  Nobody  thinks  of  decay  in  England ;  nobody 
there  thinks  of  the  fading  of  splendor  or  the  weakening 
of  force.  The  people  set  to  work  to  deal  with  legisla- 
tive questions  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a  nation  just 
beginning  to  shape  its  constitution.  They  are  not  try- 
ing to  patch  up  a  weatherbeaten,  worn-out  thing,  stick- 
ing a  bit  of  straw  on  the  roof  to  keep  the  rain  out  till 
the  old  house  falls  down ;  they  do  not  think  about 
houses  the  work  and  shelter  of  a  generation :  they  deal 
with  rocks  moss-grown  and  heavy,  the  formation  of 
ages,  and  they  quarry,  shape  and  build,  mould  the  mas- 
sive stone  into  that  which  neither  wind  can  overthrow 
nor  rain  wash  away,  set  it  against  ocean's  wave  and 
war's  artillery,  and  thus  work,  not  for  an  age,  but  for  all 
time. 

The  religion  of  England  is  another  glory.  I  need 
not  speak  of  its  nature ;  all  men  know  the  vitality  and 
the  purity  of  the  Christianity  which  has  long  reigned 

26 


4OO  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

there.  It  is  Protestant,  and  Protestant  it  will  remain  till 
the  end  of  time.  In  the  great  moral  and  spiritual  re- 
forms of  the  age  the  Church  is  doing  her  part,  wrestling 
with  the  ignorance,  irreligion  and  shame  of  the  masses 
in  the  great  cities,  striving  to  stay  the  deadly  flood  of 
intemperance  which  at  one  time  threatened  to  destroy  all 
things  and  is  still  mighty  for  evil,  and  seeking  in  every 
way  to  better  the  lot  of  the  people  and  to  guide  them  to 
an  inheritance  beyond  the  flood  of  time  and  of  change. 
Moreover,  the  best  of  England's  sons  are  going  forth  to 
bear  the  tidings  of  a  redeeming  Lord  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth.  Nations  that  have  long  sat  in  darkness  are  be- 
ginning to  see  the  great  light ;  the  cross  is  uplifted  in 
the  cities  of  China  and  in  the  forest-wilds  of  Africa; 
martyr-blood  has  watered  the  seed  of  truth  sown ;  the 
same  hymns  and  the  same  prayers  which  are  offered  up 
to  the  Almighty  amid  the  ancient  glories  of  a  Westmin- 
ster are  sung  and  said  in  tens  of  thousands  of  humbler 
temples  scattered  on  distant  shores.  And  though  other 
nations  are  doing  good  work  for  Christ,  yet  it  seems 
given  to  men  of  Anglo-Saxon  race  to  lead  the  way  and 
to  be  the  first  in  the  army  of  spiritual  conquest  and  oc- 
cupation. It  was  through  the  people  of  Canaan  that  all 
the  nations  of  the  earth  were  blessed ;  it  is  through  us 
to-day  that  those  blessings  are  increased.  The  glory 
and  the  life  of  England's  future  will  be  long  and  great 
even  as  she  is  faithful  to  her  trust  and  true  to  her  God. 
Nor  must  the  colonies  be  forgotten.  England  has 
fringed  the  sea  with  her  settlements  and  developed  na- 
tions in  distant  parts  of  the  earth.  Take  the  map  of  the 
world  and  see  how  the  red  lines  of  her  realm  rest  in 
every  quarter  of  the  globe,  on  every  continent  and  in 


LAST  GLIMPSES.  40 1 

every  sea.  Venice  built  a  city  on  the  flood ;  England 
has  created  an  empire  on  the  mighty  main.  Think  of 
vast  Australia,  and  the  beautiful  islands  of  New  Zealand ; 
of  golden  India,  and  the  rich  Africa  of  the  South ;  of 
myriad  isles  which  dot  the  tide-stirred  waters ;  and  of 
wide,  ocean-bounded  and  vigorous  Canada.  These 
communities  have  all  the  same  language,  institutions, 
beliefs  and  books.  They  are  peopled  by  the  descendants 
of  the  men  who  ages  back  ploughed  the  plains  and  sub- 
dued the  mountains  of  Great  Britain.  The  manners 
and  the  customs  which  prevail  in  England  prevail  in 
these  other  lands.  As  children  of  the  one  mother  they 
are  bound  by  the  indissoluble  ties  of  race.  What  may 
be  their  future  political  connection  I  cannot  say ;  only 
this  I  know — that  there  are  stronger  bonds  of  union 
than  mere  legislative  acts.  Each  may  be  independent  so 
far  as  parliaments  are  concerned,  and  yet  be  one  in  re- 
ligion, sentiment,  literature,  tongue,  habits,  history  and 
aim.  These  were  found  to  hold  the  Greek  colonies  of 
three  thousand  years  ago  loyal  to  their  mother-land; 
they  will  be  found  to  be  the  strength  of  a  nobler  em- 
pire than  scholars  can  devise  or  statesmen  create.  A 
whiff  of  opinion  can  sever  mere  political  ties ;  no  rev- 
olution, be  it  ever  so  violent  or  wide-reaching,  can  pos- 
sibly change  the  language  taught  by  the  fathers.  It  was 
once  a  prevailing  idea  that  the  Christian  Church  could 
not  be  held  together  unless  every  member  of  it  believed 
the  same  doctrines  and  obeyed  the  same  supreme  juris- 
diction ;  we  have  lived  to  see  that  Christianity  suffers 
nothing  from  having  burst  asunder  the  bands  of  cast- 
iron  organization.  This  very  century,  which  is  by  some 
so  severely  condemned  for  its  denominationalism,  has 


402  THE  HEART  OF  M ERR  IE  ENGLAND. 

been  equalled  by  no  age  in  its  devotion  to  Christ  and  to 
the  propagation  of  the  faith.  Possibly  the  like  truth 
may  be  reached  in  the  social  life.  At  any  rate,  even  in 
the  streets  of  London  or  in  the  meadows  of  Warwick- 
shire the  thoughts  go  out  to  the  greater  Englands  be- 
yond the  seas.  There  is  the  vision  of  this  vast  continent 
— its  happy  homes,  its  wide  farmlands,  its  vast  cities, 
busy  towns  and  flourishing  villages,  its  comparative  free- 
dom from  the  pauperism  of  the  Old  World,  its  schools 
and  colleges,  its  advantages  of  success  to  all  who  are 
sober,  industrious  and  plodding, — a  picture  of  peace  and 
plenty,  of  joy  and  hope.  England  is  as  a  sacred  shrine 
around  which  men  of  her  race  are  building  the  walls  of 
a  noble  minster.  Nations  that  shall  love  her  shall  be 
her  strength  and  her  glory.  .  Nations  that  shall  speak 
her  tongue  shall  sing  the  praises  of  her  past,  delight 
themselves  in  her  history  and  show  in  their  own  life  the 
beauty  and  the  power  of  inherited  virtues  and  trans- 
mitted graces.  Shakespeare  shall  live  beside  the  St. 
Lawrence,  the  Hudson  and  the  Murray,  as  well  as  on 
the  Avon  and  the  Thames ;  the  same  Scriptures  shall  be 
read  in  the  valleys  of  the  great  mountains  of  the  West 
as  in  the  glens  and  on  the  plains  of  God-fearing  Britain. 
Transplanting  does  not  injure  the  Anglo-Saxon.  The 
dahlia  is  a  native  of  tropical  America ;  there  it  rears  its 
yellow  disk  and  its  dull  scarlet  rays  to  the  sun :  in  our 
Northern  gardens  it  has  developed  into  a  flower  of 
brighter  hue  and  deeper  color.  Change  of  clime  has 
done  much  for  it,  and  even  here  its  cuttings  are  found  to 
flourish  best  in  a  soil  different  from  that  in  which  grows 
the  parent-plant.  So  the  Anglo-Saxon  has  not  suffered 
by  passing  from  his  European  home  to  America  or  to 


LAST  GLIMPSES.  403 

Australia.  He  has  taken  with  him  the  spirit,  the  cour- 
age and  the  devotion  of  his  race ;  he  has  developed  them 
till  he  has  given  to  the  land  of  his  adoption  a  greater 
lustre  and  a  stronger  life  than  belong  to  the  land  of  his 
birth ;  he  has  made  ancient  virtues  grow  as  lovely  and 
as  true  as  ever,  whether  in  homes  beneath  the  burning 
suns  of  the  South  or  on  the  borders  of  the  eternal  ice- 
bound North. 

I  lay  down  my  pen  and  turn  my  thoughts  away  from 
the  social  problems,  the  physical  beauties,  the  delightful 
associations  and  the  pleasant  memories  of  the  old  coun- 
try. The  work  is  done,  the  story  is  told ;  if  the  reader 
is  not  satisfied,  be  sure  the  fault  lies  in  the  author,  and 
not  in  the  subject.  One  picture  only  remains — not  that 
of  the  reader  casting  aside  as  a  thing  of  little  value  a 
book  written  both  to  please  and  to  instruct — which  he 
may  do  or  not  at  his  pleasure — but  that  of  a  summer 
eventide  beside  the  flowing  Stour.  The  willows  deepen 
the  shadows  on  the  water;  the  nightingale  sings  the 
song  of  love  in  the  apple  trees  close  by ;  from  far  away 
comes  the  murmuring  melody  of  pealing  bells,  and  the 
setting  sun  sends  the  streams  of  golden  light  through 
the  elms,  over  the  fields  and  past  the  hoary  church- 
tower.  There  are  rowers  on  the  river,  and  the  soft 
winds  bear  hither  and  thither  the  aroma  of  gardens  and 
orchards  and  the  chorus  of  young  men  and  young 
maidens.  Quiet,  gentle,  joyful  peace !  The  great  world 
is  far  away,  and  as  the  twilight  comes  on  and  the  glow 
of  the  west  fades  into  night-shadows  the  strange  sweet- 
ness of  rural  life  makes  itself  felt,  and  the  soul  passes 
into  the  mystical  borderland  between  earth  and  heaven, 


404  THE  HEART  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND. 

far  away  from  turmoil  and  from  tumult  into  the  restful- 
ness  of  the  garden  of  delights.  The  days  gone  by  and 
the  days  to  come  mingle  with  the  day  that  now  is : 
time  seems  to  have  died  and  misery  and  sin  to  have 
gone  for  ever ;  and  in  the  glory  of  the  dying  eventide 
I  pluck  a  folded  daisy  from  the  grass  and  I  lay  it  beside 
a  pure  red  rose,  emblem  of  homely  virtues  and  lovely 
graces  twined  together  in  eternal  oneness,  even  as  Na- 
ture and  History  have  made  one  beautiful  realm,  and  a 
gentle  spirit  by  my  side  whispers, 

"  Truth  and  love,  restfulness  and  peace — the  Heart  of 
Merrie  England !" 


THE   END. 


